WHAT do you do when you are faced with 12 weeks – and possibly more – of staying in the house, going out only to the two local shops and the pharmacy? My suggestion is that you keep a diary of what you actually do and what you intend to do for the next three months – you’ll soon find those two things are quite different.

Last weekend, my partner – hereinafter known as the heidie as she’s an ex-teacher – and I decided that we would go into lockdown as it seemed the only sensible thing to do.

Our decision was proven correct when a good friend and her family had to go into full quarantine on day one of our attempt to not get this blasted virus.

The reason to avoid it is very simple for me – I am a diabetic with a heart condition, namely atrial fibrillation. In other words, if I get it I will be toast – literally so as my will states I want to be cremated.

The heidie immediately took charge in her very practical teacher’s way. She’s a fit woman and although we are both in our 60s – state secret revealed there – she has kept herself trim and I can’t thank her enough for joining me in this impris ... incarcer ...positive project. Here’s how our first week went:

Day One: You find that everywhere you look you see Coronavirus or Covid-19 – I’ll just call it the virus from now on. I sit down and work out the odds of dying from it. I can be a morbid type but I am also a gambler and understand thing like odds – and they’re not in my favour. Apparently 1-2% of people who get the virus will die. OK, 50-1,

I can thole that. But oops, if you are diabetic your chances of popping your clogs rise to 6-7% – that’s getting on for 14 -1. Do I not like those odds? I’ve bet horses that have won at 16-1 or bigger so those odds are not fun at all.

Day Two: With panic buying rampant, we have no choice but to go shopping and, sure enough, people who have never been in our local Co-Op in their puff have descended to clear the shelves.

I mean, how many sheets of toilet paper do people need to clean their bums?

The Co-Op, like every other supermarket, brings in restrictions but why don’t we all agree that before the next virus comes around, we all get a bidet?

Day Three: Start a new game called the U-Bender. We will be watching every pronouncement by Boris Johnson and Donald Trump and marking down the U-turns they make. Yup, Donald says it’s all under control. And then he says it isn’t. Oops.

Day Four: The heidie has drawn up a list of when the use-by dates kick in for the food in our fridge. We won’t starve until Tuesday, by which time our food delivery will have filled the freezer – we hope.

Watch Penance on Channel 5. Hasn’t Art Malik aged? But not past his use-by date, we conclude.

Day Five: Start shouting at the telly every time BoJo or some other eejit appeals to bar owners and restaurateurs to voluntarily shut down.

Day Six: Thank heavens for little dogs. Hamish, our Jack Russell, decides to pick on a local dog that’s six times his size. The other mutt just rolls over and Hamish struts away to leave both sets of owners laughing. And it is the best medicine. Then we realise we’ve come too close so we wave each other away. I mean, how do you instantly measure two metres?

Day Seven: Boris U-turns and orders bars and restaurants to shut. Nice one, ditherer.