A few months after the pandemic started, my husband and I instigated ‘Nude Chat Time’ where every afternoon we’d jump into bed for half an hour and just talk. About sport, David Attenborough, should we give up meat. It kept us connected and less anxious.

All this time later, those lovely sessions have stopped. We still like lying down. But we’ve run out of things to say.

What is there to talk about when you know what the other person did all day? I hear his work Zoom calls, he hears mine. He knows what I say to my sister. I know what he says to the dog. We’re reduced to talking about, God forbid, our dreams.

I annoy him with stupid questions: Do you think Meghan lets Harry watch cricket? Why don’t you ever see baby seagulls? Would you rather dance with Ryan Gosling or Ryan Reynolds? Would you tell the truth if you thought I was too old for a bikini?

Just as my handwriting is now appalling because of a reliance on typing, my actual talking skills have devolved along with my topics. Our neighbour Bill hailed us during a walk. His reminiscences about his late mum’s love of passionfruit stymied me.

Every fortnight I talk TV on radio with Virginia Trioli. Easy, breezy. Except lately I get roiling anxiety Virginia will ask something tough. Like, “Which platform is the show on?”

Everyone’s in the same boat, of course. The pandemic has pulverised the art of conversation. Because we all have this ghastly shared experience, there’s no point talking about it – but the Catch-22 is there’s nothing else to discuss.

There’s no office gossip, no travel tales, no “I found this fantastic restaurant”. Even asking someone how they are is gloomily predictable: “Yeah, you know, same old, same old.” Yeah, I know.