Oh my god the passport has expired – will we ever get to Portugal?

Mum, where’s Delta?” asks Lola. “Can I go to Lambda?” I don’t know what she’s talking about until she adds: “And where is Kent and Nepal?” She’s obviously been picking up on all the talk about variants, including one that sounds like she wants to go to drama school. Next, she will be asking me if Delta Plus is a super special country? Or if the B1351 is a motorway? Or if we can go to “South African Beta” on holiday?

I’m hopeless at geography, but maybe I should create a world map to teach Lola where all the variants originated from? I had been saving the moment to produce a fabulous spinning globe to show her and Liberty where they live in relation to the rest of the world, but I’m denied this moment because of Covid. So I get out the pens and paper and start on a map.

As I’m drawing Europe, I have a sudden flash in my mind saying “passports”. We are going to Portugal in three weeks – will I be able to remember how to unlock the safe? There I am worrying about how many Covid tests we have to get – pre-arrival in Portugal, pre-return to the UK, followed by day 2 and day 8, with a day 5 thrown in for early release – and will we have to quarantine for 10 days or will they have ditched it? It’s mayhem, but imagine if something went wrong and the safe didn’t open the night before. With the pandemic, it’s been so long since I last got the passports out of there.

But I get distracted when my neighbour appears at my door out of the blue – just as I’m proudly pinning my “around the world in 15 variants map” to the wall. She’s an anti-vaxxer – just one of a handful I know – and is bringing her granddaughter over for a play date. I totally forgot. “But Lola had a mild temperature yesterday,” I warn her concerned, as she is at least 80.

She’s totally unfazed. Lola’s lateral flow test was negative – but she shrugs it off without a care in the world. Hasn’t she seen the daily updates on case numbers lately? Is her superpower denial?

The main problem is my sister Rebecca has just arrived at mine to drop off some half-chewed torn kids books she thinks the girls might like – it’s awkward – as she can’t put up with anti-vaxxers. She’s like Anne Robinson in the Weakest Link – stern and doesn’t suffer fools gladly – or anybody with a differing opinion at all. Especially after she has had a few glasses of Prosecco on an empty stomach.

But it’s too late – their paths cross – and they both see the “variant map”. “Freedom at last! Thank God for vaccines,” my sister says with a thumbs up signal. “Oh I don’t bother with any of that,” my neighbour says. “It’s all madness – a big drama – just ignore it,” she says.

I run for cover in my garden – I can’t bear it. It’s just one of many subjects to avoid if you want to keep friends, along with Palestine, Meghan Markle, lockdowns, and how to bring up other people’s children.

Then I hear the doorbell ring again. It’s like Piccadilly Circus – everyone is coming out of the woodwork. It’s overwhelming after having such a quiet time in lockdown. It’s my old friend from LA who wonders if I want to walk with her, her kids and her husband to Westbourne Grove for their private day 5 “Covid test and release”. They’ve been quarantining and taking it easy – she looks great – or is that the botox? Her youngest sees Muggles in the hallway and asks me if he’s “an emotional therapy dog”...

Is that because she can hear all the tension in the background? What have they told her about me? All the tragedy I’ve been through – my addiction, my mum’s death, Alex’s suicide – do I look like I need a therapy dog? While Muggles might have been a comfort after Alex died, he’s certainly not now. I need therapy just to cope with housing him under the same roof.

They must have noticed the horror on my face. I’ve taken it personally. My friend’s husband quickly says: “Everybody registers their pet as an emotional therapy dog in LA so they can take them into shops.” They start to look twitchy, checking over their shoulders in case the UK customs officials are watching them – so they need to walk on to the Covid test. They are only here for few more days for a business meeting – it might be my only chance to see them. But I can’t go because my sister and the neighbour are having a full-on argument.

I wave goodbye to my friends – we are all double jabbed but we don’t hug despite the fact I haven’t seen them in over a year. You never know – I don’t want a Hollywood variant. I go back indoors and my sister leaves abruptly and I realise the neighbour has clambered over the garden wall to get home like a cornered animal.

Exhausted, I go to the safe and it opens immediately – ‘Ah phew’ – at least I can have a relaxing afternoon. I decide to fill in the additional passenger information while I have a moment. That’s when I nearly fall off my chair. “Oh my god, Lola’s passport has expired.” I’ve been obsessed with Covid issues – but this obstacle hadn’t crossed my mind. I scream when I hear it takes up to 10 weeks to get a new passport. There is a backlog of appointments for the fast track service, which still takes a week to receive it. Do we have time? Will we ever go on our much-needed holiday? I just can’t tell the kids – I have to fix this mess any which way I can.