The summers of my teenage years were peppered with pilfered cider, unrequited crushes and a voracious consumption of romantic literature.

I always thought I’d been pretty lucky with my skin. But things can change.

I ignored these shadows of you, hoping my words—the very act of speaking them—might pass right through you, as if you were mote.

The pleasure of catching up with an old favourite in your local. The thrill of a new discovery leant against the sticky bar top. Or a quick flick with a G&T at the airport, waiting for your gate to be called. I miss reading books in bars.

Louise Dean has never worked on a farm before. A trained hairdresser, she’s more used to foils and fringes than planting or picking vegetables. But since February her income has dried up entirely, as first people became frightened of unnecessary social contact, and then lockdown prohibited it altogether.

If 20th century artist Edward Hopper had been alive today it’s likely the solitary figures in his realist oil paintings would have been lit by the LED light of their smartphone screens. Pop in a few laptops and his most famous piece, Nighthawks, could be a scene from a modern metropolis almost anywhere in the world.

Dopamine is big business for silicone valley. But the highs sold to us on social media are empty and fleeting, which only make us seek more attention on the apps we hate.

My work has been produced at the Edinburgh Fringe and long listed for BBC Writersroom.