I’m pretty relaxed about the whole thing and since I have socially self isolated now for nigh on 30 years, I’m not too bothered about keeping myself to myself. And if the writing is on the wall, so be it.

My wife is scurrying around in London looking after elderly parents and I have been ordered to stay put down here in sunny East Kent. I have been forbidden to go to evensong at Canterbury Cathedral and told I’m not allowed to have coffee “down Deal” as I am accustomed to do.

But as long as I can walk the fields and beaches and hedgerows, I’m perfectly content. I very much hope we do not get a state of emergency here, with police and the army forcing you to stay indoors at gun point. That would be grim indeed.

Of course there is a serious side to all this and I feel wholeheartedly for those who have lost or will lose their lives in the months to come. I feel equally concerned by the number of businesses which will go bust and suggested a young nephew of mine considers calling force majeure on the lease of his pub. How can businesses big or small honor their obligations when their customer base has disappeared?

Panic reigns at all the local supermarkets down here. As elsewhere I gather. Herd mentality is so undignified and pointless. I suppose you can live on very little food intake and as long as you have water, all will be well. I had better plant some vegetables in the garden.

It is a total mystery to me why people would panic buy lavatory paper or alcohol. If push comes to shove you would have thought they could do without.

In the interim, I decided to go very old school and buy a large bag of grain. Not being the agricultural type I didn’t realize grain bought other than off a supermarket shelf came with chaff, husks, hulls. Cooking it did not prove a huge success so I started looking up what to do about it.

I spent my afternoon sorting the wheat from the chaff and it was one of the most satisfying hours or so I have ever spent. Basic, natural, ancient skills and ones I have never before needed to practice.

I think I’m getting a message here of sorts, somewhere along the line. Like my old chum Candide said, you need to cultivate your garden.

Oops, got to dash the doorbell has just rung. I can see four odd blokes outside on horse back, dressed in strange biblical garb. One of the rude fellows has just painted three sixes on my front door in bright yellow paint.