My day starts and ends with headlines about the Prime Minister and his advisor Dominic Cummings, which make me angry. I feel fearful that bishops – who have voiced concerns shared by many, both inside and outside churches – are being abused and threatened. “Keep out of politics or we will kill you.” It reminds me of people who stood up for justice in Latin America and South Africa, and were murdered: a world, that, until now, seemed light years away. But my fears are counterbalanced by an email which ends, “Stay safe. Don’t go to Durham”, which made me laugh.

A Zoom meeting with four friends is full of Covid consequences. One has news of a food bank run by volunteers, which had 170 visitors on Sunday. A friend from Harehills describes the litter in the streets, and the noise at night. Another describes taking her dog for a walk, and nearly being run over by young men on bicycles. I talk about writing, and how it has helped my sanity. A telephone tree phone call checks that I am alright. Another friend arrives on my doorstep with a bag of food. The WhatsApp group has lots of messages from younger neighbours, who are creating a great sense of local community.

Notices on the street tell me of support groups in my locality. I look at rainbows, drawn by children, in tribute to the health care workers. I ponder the contrasting images of men in suits behind desks – and those in full PPE, on the frontline of the health service. I feel for the carers who must break the news of death – and absorb the picture of a coffin with a red rose on it, and a funeral which will only be attended by a handful of people. As I go outside for my daily exercise, I am cheered by the small boy racing up and down the road, with his mother keeping a careful eye. And at the end of the day, another email reminds me of how Covid is affecting people in Syria. Just a small gift of money might do something for them. And this sets my own experience into a far wider, and alarming, international perspective.