This column is a shout-out. I'm thinking, for instance, of you, Lyle Michael. I've never met you, but was made aware of your existence on Wednesday evening, when I was at The Pianoman Jazz bar with Jonathan, my lovely godfather's amazing son. We were catching up and your name came up. You and he are friends, it seems. Jonathan told me that you were a regular reader of my dispatches. I blushed. He then offered me proof; he read a text you'd sent in which you referred to a column where I'd spoken about how all the diaries I've ever owned sit on one shelf in my room. You cannot imagine what it meant to me to know there is someone who follows my writing, who believes it worthy of recall and mention to another person. It made my evening. It filled me with hope.

I'm also thinking of @anjumattar who sent me a message on May 18, via Instagram, telling me she loved my last column. Because I had been writing on the go in Italy, and had stopped even sharing the links to my columns on social media, and therefore felt like my voice was just being dispersed quietly by the wind. You made the effort to write to me, and just that single line with a heart emoji made me gleam. There's another person who seemed intent not to be named, who, a few months ago, wrote me a letter via mid-day's mailbag, so I would know that what I had written then about the imposter syndrome really resonated with her consciousness.