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Weepy, sad, tired. A lot of us are probably feeling like this.

The fever and the PM’s announcement hit pretty much within an hour of each other, and I’ve been trying to keep my s**t together since then.

A night of tossing and turning, aching limbs, pounding headaches.

Maybe it’s the virus talking, but sometimes I can almost imagine the entire, quaking body of Britain groaning and turning in her sleep.

I wonder what she, and I, will wake up to when this fever-dream has ended.



People are made of stories.

Stories are the threads that weave between us, knit us together, even the ones that make us cry.

Especially the ones that make us cry.

One day, we’ll share the stories of Tiny Gandalf and the woman who stole a fridge, and of the cosmic bus and the cups of tea, and of a town in the hills where the crows sing.

Stories are important, you see. Keep telling ’em. Keep speaking them until your heart breaks. And then tell the story of that, too.

Because stories are stronger than rock, stronger than heartbreak, stronger even than time itself – so long as you got the breath to tell them.

Keep telling them.




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