Sunday Mr Young is looking wan at the moment. There’s no spring in his step – although, if I’m honest, there never really was one, it was more of a dull thud, but obviously I’m painting a picture here – and every joint is aching, he says. We’re both testing negative, so he must have one of the other viruses that presumably still exist, although no one ever talks about them any more. So he’s working from home, huddled over his keyboard, looking like the gaunt and sickly Ghost

5 September 2021 It’s a funny old world, isn’t it? Well, no, actually. Right now, there aren’t many days when I wake up chuckling. Mr Young and I have reached the age when the alarm goes off, we check to make sure the other is still breathing, then pretend to be asleep until one of us has to get up, make the tea and let Ruby out. It’s tricky getting the balance just right between pretending to be asleep and not looking dead. My approach is to surreptitiously wipe the drool of