That to-do list I am supposed to get through but can’t summon the energy for in these weird, distracted times.

Worrying about insomnia.

The perimenopause.

My solution has been to scroll through my life, my thoughts, my fantasies, my memories, mis-memories, and the like until I have chanced upon events, people, or narratives that I can employ to divert my mind from the body in which it is encased. These mental exercises have to be interesting enough to hold my attention and see me through an intolerable itch in my inner ear or lower back; but they also have to be boring and predictable enough to serve as a reliable prelude and encouragement to sleep. It took me some time to identify this process as a workable alternative to insomnia and physical discomfort and it is by no means infallible. But I am occasionally astonished, when I reflect upon the matter, at how readily I seem to get through, night after night, week after week, month after month, what was once an almost insufferable nocturnal ordeal. I wake up in exactly the position, frame of mind, and state of suspended despair with which I went to bed—which in the circumstances might be thought a considerable achievement.

As somebody who was hardworking, kind and nice.

During the first week or two of lockdown. We didn’t know what was coming and it didn’t feel dangerous at that point; there was just a real sense of family and hunkering down.

People who are not self-aware.

Not working. I want to be one of those old actors on the set of Casualty at 95, who quietly passes away in the actual scene rather than at home.

Catastrophising.

A personal assistant.