At the beginning of March I went on a second date. The first was just an hour-long drink, sandwiched between the back-to-back fashion weeks that, twice a year, take over a fashion editor’s schedule. The second was a late lunch and afternoon in the pub. As we parted ways, my date leant in for a kiss. I swerved his mouth and went for a hug instead. Partly because I wasn’t really interested and partly because headlines about the coronavirus outbreak were getting increasingly scary — swapping saliva seemed an unnecessary risk to take for someone I didn’t fancy the pants off.
Might I have snogged him had I known what was coming? Maybe, although probably not. But the surprise chastity belt that is a three-month