My frail, 82-year-old Godmother, who lives alone in a windswept cottage on the edge of the Irish sea, e-mailed me this week. She gave a spirited account of the myriad ways her food delivery man is finding to avoid contact with her: leaving her bags in the garage (too far), the back stoep (hard negotiating stairs), the sun porch (too something).

Her no-nonsense “pull yourself together” style blunted all emotion, including sharing her feelings, so her saying she was feeling low was unusual. The isolation, my Godmother wrote, is unbearable, almost worse than the possibility of contracting the virus. “I’m desperately lonely with only the television for company.”..

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