WE’RE walking the dog across the cricket field, steering clear of fellow strollers, when we pass a young couple entwined under a tree, oblivious.

“Not much social distancing going on there,” observes my husband.

Think of all those teenage romances that have been put on hold!

Our son drives his wife up from Surrey to collect her van from outside our house. She’d mislaid the key, and they have no spare, but it’s turned up eventually, under his car seat.

I hang on to Poppy’s collar as she squeaks excitedly in the open doorway. I can’t let her run to them.

The pair of them stand on the garden path, shivering, because they can’t come in.

Brief exchanges: “Are you all right?” and “How’s it going, working from home?” Bright, cheery smiles. I wave goodbye wistfully from the front room window. When will I see them again?

I consider going to Waitrose but a friend tells me there’s a two-metre-spaced queue all round the car park and it’s taking an hour and a quarter to reach the entrance. What if you’re one of those who volunteered to buy food for someone housebound?

You’d think: “Well, I’m not going through that lot again any time soon,” so you’d load up as much as you could, even though you might not need it immediately, and to hell with being labelled a hoarder.

I chat on the phone to a friend whose mother has died. There’s a five-week wait for cremation. A funeral ceremony will have to wait even longer.

Friends are self-isolating after a nightmare holiday to Italy.

They only went because our government said the south of the country was safe. But the virus dogged their footsteps and everything closed within hours of their arrival.

They got stuck on the island of Capri. And when they did get back to the mainland, their Jet2 flight home was cancelled with no refund. The British consulate weren’t interested.

Their son in England eventually found them a ticket via Frankfurt, but only by booking a return trip. So in theory they’re off to Italy again via Germany in April. Ha,ha!

Arriving at Manchester airport, there were no health checks.

Every morning I climb aboard the exercise bike that’s been gathering dust in the spare room for a 15-minute spin, accompanied by old rock classics on Spotify.

I worry about people stuck indoors in abusive relationships.

We pass the time doing quizzes from WhatsApp and Facebook, watching Jamie’s store-cupboard cookery tips, and catching up belatedly on This Country.

There’s a Sunday lunchtime gathering in our road. Wrapped in our winter woollies, clutching coffee mugs or wine glasses, we wave from outside our respective homes and try to chat while maintaining our safe distance in the bitter wind. It’s a morale-booster. We certainly are all in this together.

I’ll leave you with a message from a Facebook post: “We are one day closer to everything being back to normal again. That’s a good thought to wake up to.”

I’m not sure I believe things will be the same. What will the new ‘normal’ be?