THERE seem to be several ways of dealing with the current coronavirus crisis.

One option – sadly is no longer open to me – is to treat the entire situation as an extended version of Twixmas – that seasonal somnolent splurge between Christmas and New Year.

You have no idea what day it is, pyjamas or a onesie are acceptable at all times and you find yourself debating whether there is such a thing as the perfect breakfast burgundy.

The onset of Zoom and Skype meetings has also resulted in people being left in a quandary about what camera angle they should use – having done a few bits of TV might I suggest that you put your laptop or mobile on a pile of books.

Otherwise you run the risk of giving your Zoom audience a passable impersonation of Jabba the Hutt.

If I had wanted an unobstructed view of your left nostril I would have been an eye, nose and throat specialist.

Then there is the bookshelf behind you. This has become as much an object of fascination as your visage itself as others in the meeting scan the shelves to see what you read.

Too much Jeffrey Archer, Jackie Collins and Dan Brown is a no-no, but on the flip side, if all you have are tomes by James Joyce, Haruki Murakami and David Foster Wallace then people know that you are trying just a little too hard.

Luckily, living off grid and without a wife as I do, the chances of anyone scanning my bookshelves online are rather slim.

Although quite what they would make of the huge piles of Olive Press cuttings, motor racing reports, rock god biographies and a slightly disturbing number of Third Reich histories, I don’t know.

Perhaps this explains why I’m not often invited to virtual chat rooms.

Ah well. Back to blowing the dust off a few tomes!

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