I hadn’t even heard of Zoom a month ago, but now it’s a welcome fixture in our lives, providing a video-link for my husband to hold work meetings from home, and much-needed exercise for me.

I do a Zoom Pilates class in the sitting-room, though as it’s set up so that the other participants can see you if you speak (it switches the camera view, useful for meetings), it does make me suddenly aware of how untidy the room is. I adjust my mobile so that the camera can see only me, lying prone on the rug, rather than the teetering stacks of books in my “to read” piles.

A video session with my personal trainer proved just as exhausting as seeing him at the gym, even though the only equipment we used was a stretch-band and a kitchen chair. I was tempted to say, “Sorry – I’m getting inter– - you’re – br– k– ng – up,” but thought I’d be rumbled.

Before we awoke into this dystopia, one of the highlights of my week was my dance class on a Friday morning. The dance teacher is a one-off — an ex-professional, blisteringly funny, who peppers her directions liberally with swear-words — “What are you effing doing? Knees straight!” At our first class via Zoom, there are technical glitches so we are all standing about, waiting, while the more techie ones shout suggestions.

One of the women has her two young grand-daughters with her in her dining-room, keen to join in. Then Mari, the teacher, kicks off on an expletive-filled rant at her laptop as she struggles to get the music to play and we all start shouting at our screens: “Mari! The children! There are children!” Friday night.

My brother-in-law has suggested that the extended family — now spread over five households — try a video link over supper as a rehearsal for Seder night, which we usually all spend together. We agree to hook up at 7.45pm after the Friday night service offered online by our synagogue.

The shul service is lovely, with our rabbi singing and playing the guitar solo in the sanctuary. The audio isn’t great, which is a shame, as he has a really good voice, but after all it’s not an audition tape and, as ever, his humanity and compassion shine through, which is more important.

The setting at the shul end has the congregants muted, otherwise the rabbi would hear not just our singing and praying, which might be welcome, but also our petty asides and squabbles — “Can’t you shift the laptop so I can see?” “Hang on — I’ve got to go and turn the potatoes.” People can text into the live feed, so there are lots of “Shabbat Shalom from the Fegenbaums” sort of messages appearing at the bottom of the screen.

But then something else appears. For a moment, I can’t take it in. It’s a racist text. It says: ‘F*** the N*****s’ (my asterisks obviously). What? Then a string of texts, a horrific mixture of racist, antisemitic and obscene — slowly at first, then very fast. One says: “Funny how the Jews make up only 2  per cent of the US population yet they control 94 per cent of the media.”

My husband, Larry, and I are always baffled by this repeated claim about Jews being in control of the media. In US book publishing, there are quite a lot of Jews, but here? Larry runs a division of a UK publishers and we know, ooh, I think two or three other Jews in the business. When I want to wind him up, I accuse him of controlling British publishing. Only it’s supposed to be funny.

This, now, is not funny. I feel sick. The deep, visceral horror of it strikes me to the core, leaving me winded, like the time when a bully punched me in the stomach at primary school. I rush out “to check on the chicken” but really it’s so I can just take a moment to myself and try to b-r-e-a-t-h-e….

For once, I’m very, very glad that our son — now 16 and very out of love with going to shul — has elected not to join us for the service.

Because the congregants are all muted, it carries on for some time, with our rabbi singing away in blissful ignorance while the rest of us are freaking out. Eventually, our trusted community director relays what’s going on to the rabbi and he asks us to focus solely on the service.

We take it in turns to mask the bottom of the screen with our hands until, at last, the text-stream gets turned off. (This was covered in the JC last week as news gets a shorter deadline than I do.)

Afterwards, the shul lets us stay online for a while, and we see family after family waving and smiling and calling Shabbat Shalom, the perfect antidote after the hatred.

Then we join remotely with Larry’s extended family. One by one, the outposts of our tribe appear. It is so comforting after the racist texts. My brother-in-law holds up a beautiful challah he has baked himself. My grown-up niece raises her glass of wine to the camera: L’chaim! These are without doubt some of the nicest, kindest, most decent people I know (just as well I like them as we’re related — hard to get shot of them otherwise…).

I spend most of my life fretting about the future or mentally raking over the past (I’m a novelist — it’s mandatory), but for once I feel absolutely brimming with gratitude for now — for this time to see them, even though we’re all in separate spaces.

The others, more restrained than we are, have all waited to eat. I thought the aim was to eat at the same time, albeit separately, so we are already laying waste to our chicken and potatoes and salads.

My sister-in-law asks me how I’ve done the potatoes and I tip the bowl to show her, “See — home fries, sautéed with onions.” It is so Friday night-ish that for a moment I forget that I can’t simply help her to a spoonful of them. I wish I could.

Be well. Be safe. Be proud to be Jewish.