As a single man with a perfect dog I’m hot property on the bubble market — who to choose?

When Tier 2 descended over London like a sad, damp cushion, it brought with it yet another new conundrum. Under Covid rules, single adults can form a social bubble with one other household… suddenly — as a single man with a perfect dog — I’m hot property on the bubble market. Almost at once, my phone erupted with friends asking if I’d chosen someone to bubble up with for winter… unsubtle references being made to crackling fires, rare bottles of wine and snug evenings indoors.

It’s flattering to feel so wanted. But how to choose? Faced with a veritable bathtub of glittering bubbles, I’m utterly paralysed. In the end, I’ll probably just end up bubbling with a local friend with whom I have regular kebabs and arguments about Star Trek. Given a completely free hand, of course, I’d place it upon the divine Taron Egerton but, alas, he’s still not replying to my letters.

Oddly, while my conscious brain’s been focussing on Taron and his impossible beauty, my subconscious has landed somewhere else entirely: Judge Amy Coney Barrett — Donald Trump’s nominee for America’s Supreme Court. As a lifelong devotee to the nooks and crannies of American politics, I’ve been watching every second of her confirmation hearings. Judge Amy and I would probably disagree on most big legal and political issues but I’ve found myself transfixed by her poise and intelligence; add in her pearls and impeccable suits and she’s like some judicial Anna Wintour. It’s a full-on judge-crush.

That being said, I was still pretty surprised by a recent dream about her. I can’t really go into the details of what we did but neither of us wore facemasks. I spent an anxious few days trying to puzzle it out. But then I remembered when I first practised at the Bar, I’d often become a feeble mess around the kick-ass female judges and QCs. They’d ask me a simple question and my body would start blushing. I’d eventually end up backing away giggling like a fool. So, while I’ll leave deeper analysis of my dream to any bored Freudians, I’d guess it was just a one-off expression of that: my utter adoration for brilliant women, whether I agree with them or not.

Whenever I’m watching ministers being asked to defend new Covid policies, they seem to dodge any questions by just shouting “science!” and moving on. I know why this doesn’t feel right for me. Back when I ran trials as a barrister, I was essentially being paid to act as a professional sceptic: you’d analyse your opponent’s case, chip away at it to expose the flaws, then exploit them for your client. I’d often come up against scientists but I’d scrutinise them the same as anyone else. The most dangerous thing was to accept an expert’s views without drilling into their reasoning.

I remember, for example, when Prof Sir Roy Meadow — a paediatrician with any number of academic bona fides — was still an authority on cot deaths. Because he was a well-regarded scientist, his conclusions often led to convictions. But his conclusions were wrong and the legal process eventually exposed them.

I believe that, behind closed doors, politicians are properly quizzing Covid experts. But surely we ought to be able to see every part of that process, rather than being left to assume it’s being done properly? Reasonable scepticism here isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a guarantee of strength.