I had my once-a-year routine breast MRI last week. It was my second ever MRI. My first was last year after finding out I am a carrier of a BRCA gene variant a few months earlier. The day of the scan came — and went. It wasn’t easy, but I got through it. I didn’t faint, throw up or have a panic attack in the middle of the MRI tunnel (all the things I was secretly afraid of). I had survived my first breast MRI a year ago, I knew I could do it again, and I knew it would be easier to manage the second time around. And it was. But nevertheless, MRI’s are not fun, even at the best of times.

I’m watching the closing ceremony of the Tokyo Olympics as I type this. It’s all precision, and flags and swelling music in the background. Oh, and also empty-like-anything stands. When the camera pans to the empty chairs in the stadium it almost looks natural. I’ve gotten used to seeing zero spectators every time I’ve flicked on the TV. It’s 2021, after all. Or 2020, in Olympic jargon. We live in strange times, that much we know.