In the absence of clear government guidelines, I’ve convinced myself that angels are everywhere, offering certainty, reliable advice and, when I need it, a firm hand on my shoulder that just says I’m doing ok. Usually they’re invisible, so I need to close my eyes to see them, slim and magnificent as a Doré engraving; other times they’ll take the earthly form of a traffic warden or a daytime game show host. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life so, as MPs sweat and bluster, harrumphing in the blowback from a million avoidable tragedies, I seek the comfort of catchphrases and fixed penalty notices, parking my car on the double yellows outside the studio and hammering on their pearly gates. No deal, says a disembodied voice. For you the chase is over. It’s what I need and, reassured, I return to the ecclesiastical gloom of my ticket-plastered car. There’s a tap on the windscreen, another fixed fine, and angel in the back seat reminds me that I’m the weakest link. On the radio, the Minister for Innovation and Obfuscation promises epiphanies for all, free school lunches, and wings by next Easter at the latest. I’d head for home, but even the road markings are too ambiguous to trust.