Eleven days ago, ‘lockdown’ became a definite fact of my existence, instead of just a word I jokily substituted for Skepta’s 'Shutdown'. Perhaps you’ve been self-isolating for a lot longer; I’ve learned that in a real-time pandemic, everyone’s timescales are different. Much to the horror of my routine-obsessed self, there’s no absolute linear protocol to be followed during a global disaster; we’re all simply muddling through.

'Home' - a simple word that means a million different things to a million different people. For some, it's the smell of a parent's cooking, headlights setting the front room aglow as your partner pulls into the driveway, or the sound of your dog's tail thwacking against the cupboards in excitement as you return home to them.

On November 1st 2014, I was sexually assaulted. It took me almost two years to say those words – to define it. My attacker was someone I’d known for almost half of my life. My friend. My boyfriend’s friend. I awoke to it happening. I didn’t fight back or scream, nor did I get up. I pretended I wasn’t awake, and I waited for it to end. My actions – or lack thereof – did not constitute consent. It’s taken me a long time to tell myself that, too – to fight the part of myself that questioned, "What if you'd resisted? Would things be different now?”