It is Saturday 13 June 2020 and the world is on fire. I’m sitting with my grandma, Esther, in her living room in south London for the first time in three months. She’s reclining in her favourite chair, occasionally sitting up to gesticulate at the TV and pepper the air with comments as we watch the 24-hour newsreel. The scene is achingly familiar; we have sat together in this way, usually with my mum, every year since my grandma was the first person to hold me in her arms in the wake of my arrival into this world, in November 1992. Yet, even while this moment is comforting in its familiarity, there is also something wholly unprecedented about the afternoon, as we watch the images flicker before our eyes.
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