Rat-a-tat-tat, ping, rat-a-tat-tat, ping. The noise infiltrates the air, becoming louder and more loaded with significance as the evening stretches into night. Six women are on the screen in front of me, one in her kitchen, an expanse of green grass just visible behind her, while another sits cross-legged in her bedroom, a halo of fairy lights strung on her lilac walls. They frown as they type, cock their heads, breathe deeply.
They’re all currently speaking to strangers. Each ping signifies someone waiting for them, someone in distress. The keyboards rattling are their words flying into the night, lighting up pockets across the UK. The women will never meet those they’re speaking to, they won’t be in contact again. But these one-off conversations, conducted through text messages, are vital. They’re…