I always thought I would be the person to build the bookcase, the secret tunnel, equip the attic room. To secrete food and water, to pass notes, to save a life.

It turns out that I scare easily; if my family are at risk, I am not so bold.

We are being tested now, it is not the wars or the massacres of our grandparents, it is a new test – one of isolation and fear. There are no bombs or shots fired, but a simple handshake could fell you. Those who dare to travel sit silently on planes with masks on, because an afternoon choir session could kill your loved ones.

Do not sing. Do not cheer. Do not hug. Do not kiss. Do not shake hands.

How will we welcome people back into our lives? I live alone. I touch no-one. I don’t know if or when that will change.

And the most unexpected thing of all, I am not Anne Frank, and I am not the family who fostered her, instead I am on the side of those reporting misdemeanours because it feels like the only way through this. We cannot look away when we see people taking risks they cannot account for.

The yellow brick road is hard to find right now, but I have to hope that together we can walk the way home.