I’ve just come back from doing a writers’ workshop in Iowa City. In gardens in rich white neighbourhoods, I repeatedly saw signs proclaiming: Women’s Rights are Human Rights; Black Lives Matter; and so on. Another writer, a white guy, was trying to write against racism. His African-American character was the nicest guy you’d ever meet. These things made me mad – though I wasn’t really sure why, or at whom.

Last night he woke to squall thunder and the thud of something falling and he thought one thing – ‘snow’ – and fell asleep again, forced himself asleep so he wouldn’t wake and worry about what fell and what might break in the night.