Frustratin' ain't it? I mean there you are with a ton an a 'arf of witty words and stupend'us aphorisms, when all of a sudden like, bam! End of the World. Line up for yer body-bags. No toilet rolls for you son! Nobody thinks of the writers. It's a crime against 'umanity. All pull together they say. National Emergency they say. All be hermits they say. I've been self-isolating for years, and don't try to tell me anything about social distancing (friends come and go, enemies are for life) but now it appears anyone can be a neurotic, depressive, loner fighting their inner demons. What was the special niche for us writers is suddenly flooded by millions of ordinary people who have never howled at the moon in their life! Their creativity is probably exhausted by filling in the pools coupon or wallpapering the dining-room. Life is certainly unfair.