I realise I’m one technical glitch away from not knowing anyone here

Tim Dowling: Houseparty is the kind of party I’d leave early, but it’s followed me home

I’ve tried to occupy myself in the garden these past weeks, but gardening turns out to be an activity best enjoyed in the context of a busy life, because germination is slow. I spend a lot of time on my hands and knees, eyeballing the bare earth and thinking: grow, you bastards.

I go out once a day to tramp the empty streets, for exercise, or just to get away from the seeds. It’s a bit more public exposure than I’m used to, but it’s exhilarating to find the world remade to suit my social skills. Not only is it OK to cross the street if you see someone coming the other way, it’s polite. You’re actually allowed to stand outside a shop door and wait, just because there’s someone in there already. They’ve got signs up, but you don’t need to teach me the new etiquette. I’ve got a knack for it.

I know this isn’t good for me. If my social reluctance isn’t regularly challenged, I will quickly become irretrievably weird. After a circuit of the neighbourhood, I return home. My wife is in the sitting room, engaged in some furious form of needlework.

“Did you remember lemons?” she says.

“There are no lemons out there,” I say. “It’s a post-lemon environment.”

“What’s in the bag?” she says.

“I got an artisanal loaf,” I say. “And limes. They had shitloads of limes.”

“That’ll do,” she says. My phone pings in my pocket.

“Christ,” I say. “People keep sending me links to the Houseparty app.”

“Not really your sort of thing,” my wife says.

“What isn’t?” says the youngest one, leaning his head through the door.

“Dad’s got to go on Houseparty,” my wife says.

“I tried it last night,” he says. “You just sit there in little squares, drinking.”

“I can’t think of anything worse,” I say.

At 7.30pm, I am watching the news when my phone pings again, with another link.

“I’ve gotta do this,” I say.

“Not here,” my wife says. “Go in the kitchen.”

I fill a glass of wine to the brim, open my laptop and download the app. I locate my friend’s account and click on it. He appears in a square, with his glass of wine.

“Hey!” he says. “There he is!” He is with his wife, and they are talking to my agent.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” my agent says. This seems less like a virtual party and more like a staged intervention.

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“Hi,” I say. “I don’t really get this.” A flurry of overlapping, distorted speech follows. Another box appears, with another friend in it, someone I have not spoken to in months.

“What are you doing here?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I say. Another square opens, this time with a complete stranger in it. My agent introduces us.

“Hello,” I say. A stranger arrives, then another. This is like the kind of party I would leave early, but it’s followed me home. Actually it’s worse than that, because I can see my own face. Do I always look that panicked?

Suddenly, with a gust of feedback, my original friend’s square freezes, turns blue, and disappears.

“Uh-oh,” I say. Another square goes blue. I realise I’m one technical glitch away from not knowing anyone here. I imagine a worst-case scenario in which, after a series of accidents, I am left alone in a virtual room with Margaret Atwood. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, I hear. We are unlikely to hit it off.

“I should really start cooking,” I say.

“Yes, me too,” says my agent. I close the lid of my laptop as my wife walks in.

“Well, I’m never doing that again,” I say.

“I’m not sure why you did it in the first place,” she says.

“If you need me, I’ll be staring at my seeds,” I say.