Robert Webb

Feeling some pressure to write is one thing; being told what to read is quite another. On social media there seems to be a peculiar view that challenging tasks one would normally put off are suddenly expected in the face of a horrifying pandemic. ‘This is a great time to finally read Ulysses! If not now, when?’ I’ve got a pretty good idea of when — how about when we’re not all knackered and stressed out because of the plague outside the front door? That might seem a more convivial moment. Absorbing hobbies I can understand, escapism I can understand, but books from the weighty end of the English canon that I didn’t get to when I was a student, I’ll read another time or I won’t get to at all, thanks. Ditto my first risotto.

Empathy and kindness in these difficult times come more easily to some than others, but I’m trying. I had heart surgery in November to repair a faulty mitral valve. Recovery has been terribly scientific. On my daily walk, a heart monitor is synched with an app on my phone so through earphones I can hear my heart rate as well as encouraging messages in a voice I find indistinguishable from the American cultural critic Bonnie Greer. Mainly, my walk is spent suppressing the inner Nazi who can’t believe the human race still refuses to be more like me. Particularly at a time when good manners and common sense are now a public health issue.