’m not a big crier, but some of the things that have set me off this week include: news of the 40,000 retired medics volunteering for service in overwhelmed New York hospitals; people leaving gifts for NHS staff on their cars; a clip of Gene Kelly dancing in Singin’ in the Rain; and a statement by the minority leader of the Senate, promoting the $2 trillion stimulus package with the words, “To all Americans I say, ‘Help is on the way.’” If further evidence were needed, being brought to tears by Chuck Schumer confirms that the world has gone mad. These small collapses would be easier to handle if they represented a consistent response to the crisis. On a personal level, however, one of the most disturbing aspects of all this is that it’s hard to settle on a mode of being. I snap violently between moods. One minute, I’m blandly cheerful and convinced that, in retrospect, this will all seem like a bout of bad turbulence – when you make pacts with God if only you’ll be spared, to snap sheepishly back to your senses when the plane steadies. At other times, I’m convinced the coronavirus will lead to a major reset and life will never be the same. And then there’s the panic. It’s not just a worry about getting sick; the list of ancillary worries unfurls like a scroll. As my children jump on the sofa, wild with unspent energy from being inside all day, I yell, “Stop doing that – if you break a leg we can’t go to hospital.” I worry about family abroad, but also about my phone breaking and not being able to fix it. As the number of people testing positive for Covid-19 in my New York apartment building rises, I don’t want to use the laundry room or touch the elevator buttons on the way out, but I also don’t want to bring more delivery foot-traffic into the building. I worry about how happy my children are right now. It has been sobering, for many parents, to watch their kids decompress over the last two weeks and realise how even five-year-olds are subject to grindingly tough timetables. Ordinarily, my kids are out of the house between 8.30am and 6pm every day, which after two weeks off-schedule seems like lunacy. “It’s sad we’re not going to school,” said one of mine this week, with such pathos my heart broke for her. But I also notice they’re eating better and the black circles are disappearing from under their eyes. And while I snap at them for interrupting me on the phone, there is a lot less yelling now that we’re not constantly late getting out of the door. I have no idea what to do about any of this, hence all the wayward emotion. Anything can trigger it. We’re reading a book about the Titanic, so my children and I watch the movie and after enjoying a surge of maternal pride when both kids bellow, “I hate this music!” at the title song, something insane happens. Mr Andrews, the ship’s designer, says, “I’m sorry I didn’t build you a stronger ship, young Rose.” It’s a terrible line, followed by an equally terrible scene in which the band plays Nearer My God to Thee. It doesn’t matter. Off I go.