have always found it gratifying that one of my friends, Jack, is a sommelier. Probably because I have not updated any of my references for “sophistication” since 1999, after watching a Frasier box set while off sick from school. Their life in the penthouse with the ice-maker was so “other” to mine – in the terrace, with the gas meter – and at 11, I missed the satire. Thus, I still think of things such as wine as chic. (It’s also fun when Jack talks to me as an equal and I nod along, thinking in puns. Any musing on supply chains and climate, and I say, “Yes, quite!” while sniggering a private joke to myself, I guess it’ll be dealt with case by case.) Jack wasn’t feeling so fun the last time I saw him, however. Furloughed from work, he was considering volunteering at the local hospital. “I want to help,” he said, downbeat. “What good is a sommelier during a pandemic?” His job now is to greet patients with a mask and sanitiser, and ensure they are seated safely. He’s effectively the hospital maitre d’: the skills he learned from hospitality (putting people at ease, crowd management, patience) make him a loved volunteer. Alongside those who hold this whole mess together (teachers, health workers, shop staff and more), it’s easy to feel pointless. I feel this way, too, sometimes, like fatty excess. But we all have skills and we all have value. Whether they are the skills the government wants (aren’t we all supposed to become coders?) and pays for fairly is another sorry story altogether. So next time the weight of the world makes me doubt my worth, I will remember my friend. I hope he knows his worth, too. He may not be filling glasses right now, but I’ll be raising a glass to Jack.