It is the beginning of summer. It is hot but windy, as so many summer days are in London. It is that strange period between the first and second national lockdowns. COVID-19 cases are not as ubiquitous as they were in the spring, but they’re on the rise again, and no-one is paying any attention.

It is 6am and I wake up with a start at my partner’s house. I lurch forward in bed and try my best to catch all the vomit in my mouth before it escapes onto his duvet. I run to the bathroom, only I limp, because when I stand up I find there is a sharp pain in my stomach, sharper than normal, and deeper, creeping into my back and down my legs. My vision blurs and I fall over. This is the dreaded moment that my partner wakes up. I desperately don’t want him to see me like this.