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