A postcard of kangaroos lounging among gumtrees arrives in our letterbox in London, addressed to my 4-year-old daughter.
“My darling,” it says. “How are you? Are you enjoying school? Do you have friends? Your brother is one year old now. I hope you can come and see me in Australia one day. I love you and think of you often – from ‘Nana in Australia.’”
“Nana in Australia” is the pixelated face on my laptop, the voice cutting out on my phone.
She lives on the other side of the world, in a place where Covid-19 doesn’t exist, or at least not to the degree that it has ravaged the United Kingdom with a terrifying ferocity.