efore I start a column, I talk about it with a friend. They will ask idly, “How’s the writing going?” And when I’m not shrieking, “It’s not! It’ll never go!” because I am behind schedule, I test my ideas. This week I’d planned to write about the cats that pass through my garden and how, because the circumference of my life has contracted to the flat’s perimeter, a drop-in from these nimble-pawed visitors was the day’s excitement. Meanwhile, actual celebrities have lost all relevance: a seismic change for a millennial raised on the minutiae of strangers’ lives. I figured there was something in this, or in how owning a cat is a communal kindness. I hadn’t fleshed it out. But my friend seemed mortified by the idea. She’d heard that cats could spread the virus if an infected person touched their fur. I Googled it: there were no cases of this occurring, nor a reputable authority mentioning it. “It won’t age well,” she insisted, pointing to the two-week lag between writing and publishing. “By then, the government could have put cats in lockdown.” I confess I did briefly enjoy the mental image of the health secretary, Matt Hancock, flapping around, literally trying to herd kittens, but I felt my friend had a point. Not about the cats , but about time. Although it may feel slower and our world is smaller, we are, in fact, racing through it, like a pod through space, even if inside there’s just a pair of astronauts binge-eating freeze-dried cheese. Weeks contain a month’s events. Months are worthy of a history book. I have no idea what any of it means, other than having had enough of living through “historic” times. But I suspect I won’t easily forget how quickly everything can change, or how fast time can move. Best not to take the joys for granted, or to wait to do the things that make us happy. Cats may have nine lives, but I have only one.