I found a letter the other day. From an era known as the time of the Great Cringe. An era spanning most of the 90s where a lot of my memories just make my face fold up inside itself in such a way that it can only be coaxed out with a tweezers and patience.

Before ‘All of This’, we went to Centerparcs. It was either a few months or a decade ago. Time has no meaning since the clocks were closed.

We are told we are now in the era of the social double-bubble. Experts encourage us to metaphorically put our car keys in a bowl, pick another couple and stick to that choice. It may not be possible for everyone either through reasons of accessibility or just not really liking anyone enough to make them your Significant Other House.

It’s time to talk rot. Not rancid rot. Not breaddy rot or chickeny rot. Nice rot. Eggshells and lettuce. Potato skins. The kind of stuff that you make you say Oh instead EEEEEUUU.

Gratitude. I’m grateful I found out about it actually. I had always thought of gratitude as a sort of fuzzy nice-to-have.

Many mini-genres of social media bulls**t have blossomed like dandelions in this crisis. One of the more rage-inducing is ‘productivity shaming’.

We are doing our darnedest to flatten the coronavirus curve. But, elsewhere, there are other curves growing exponentially.

“I don’t know and I don’t think I’ll ever know. And that’s fine.” That’s my new mantra for sanity.

Disney Plus? Another subscription? Surely now is not the time. Surely you can get the stuff from the libr...

We are everyone now. Reluctantly admitting we are as basic as David Gray’s White Ladder being your first CD, writes Colm O'Regan