During the early days of Covid in 2020, I moved from my flat in the bustling heart of North London to my ancient cottage in the New Forest.
I’ve been here ever since. It’s in a beautiful village, one I’ve known since I was eight years old when I first came with my parents.
There are lots of people I know locally, albeit not well, and I’m living with my daughter Miriam, who has ME, the chronic fatigue syndrome, and is brilliant company.
I’m forever using Zoom to call friends and colleagues, and we’ve been adopted by the neighbour’s cat so, in one way or another, there’s usually something happening in the house. At the moment, it’s leaks – the plumber is in and out.
But sometimes, when I’m on my own in the evening after my daughter has gone to bed, watching hour after hour of television, I think to myself: ‘What on earth am I doing?’ I wonder if I am the same person I used to be when I was rushing around on BBC TV’s That’s Life!, launching Childline and its equivalent for older people,…