There have been a few whinges of frustration, some groans of self-pity, but halfway through this trial by isolation, the vast majority of people have submitted with good grace to a vexing test of national character and comradeship.
Dealing with all this adversity, it's comforting to tell ourselves that it's to prepare for, and thereby avert, the worst, but that's to cod ourselves a bit. A previous Irish generation were put under orders to prepare for the worst - the real worst - when they were told to steel themselves for a nuclear war that could wipe humankind from the face of the Earth.
In the wake of the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis, as the US and USSR stepped gingerly back from the brink of mutual obliteration, Red China upped the game of Russian roulette, exploding a bomb in 1964. The following year 700,000 Irish households received a copy of Bás Beatha (Death/Life), a guide to "protection in the home and on the farm".
While a direct strike on Ireland seemed unlikely, the pamphlet stressed that "RADIOACTIVE FALL-OUT" blowing from Britain or the continent could poison the land. For good measure, there was a section on surviving a direct hit "in a future war".
There have been some faint criticisms that the state's containment measures on the moving target of Covid-19 have seemed disjointed at times, but compared to the game plan behind Bás Beatha, they represent a strategic masterclass.
Householders in 1965 were told to keep the booklet within easy reach as "it could mean the difference between life and death for you and your family".
This was a whopper of a white lie, because instead of underlining Ireland's preparedness for nuclear war, it exposed the country's abject state of unreadiness on every page.
The Bás Beatha advice was little more than a cut and paste of the useless "duck and cover" drills issued by the US, UK and Soviet governments, but with additional livestock.
The US guidelines inspired an iconic, million-selling poster which began, sensibly enough, with "stay clear of all windows", progressed to "stand away from orchestra equipment" and concluded with "kiss your ass goodbye".
Donald Trump has been roundly blasted for wishing quixotic expiry dates on the corona crisis, but perhaps the US President is confusing Covid-19 with nuclear fallout which, according to Bás Beatha, "would be tolerable after a few days". (Today, 34 years after the Chernobyl meltdown, a fallout contamination exclusion zone of 2,600 sq km still exists).
Irish citizens of 1965 were told that any outbreak of a nuclear war would be promptly reported on Radio Éireann, while gardaí, Civil Defence wardens and good neighbours would raise a general alarm by making a racket "on sirens, hooters, bells, whistles or motor car horns".
Non-essential workers "may be advised to go home", but "some people in essential services will have to stay at their posts". These workers "will have protection where they are".
Hearing the red alert, farmers should move their livestock indoors.
Milk cows should get priority over all other animals, but they presented a unique problem. "Cows will be in great pain during the refuge period unless you make arrangements for milking them."
The solution was to assign a milker to stay with the cattle in a one-person bunker.
Upon finishing Bás Beatha, the reader should select a refuge room, preferably in the middle of the house and ideally with no windows or very small ones, since these will need to be blocked up with bricks, sacks of soil or other shields.
The refuge room should be stocked with food and liquids, toilet and washing facilities, reading material and a battery-powered radio. Panic-buying got no mention, but: "You could begin to build up your stock from now on. The money will not be wasted".
It suggested tinned meat, fruit and vegetables, along with packet soups, raisins, chocolate, biscuits and condensed milk.
Assuming your roof didn't catch fire from Bob Dylan's "hard rain", the government had high hopes of a very short confinement.
"About two days in refuge may be expected but this period may have to be extended somewhat if the authorities think it is wise to do so. It is possible that there may be no conditions attached to your release. In many areas, however, people will be told that they can spend only a specified number of hours per day outside the refuge room, and still less in the open." Should he choose to do so, the Taoiseach could deliver the 'all-clear' message personally from the government's bunker beneath Athlone's Custume Barracks. Fortified against radiation, and with provisions for 100 days of lockdown, this HQ in Ireland's dead centre would coordinate the recovery.
The planners envisaged that most people would resume daily life in their homes, but some would have to be evacuated.
They were told: "You will have to leave behind you many valuable possessions. Livestock will have to be left behind, and town dwellers will have to leave their domestic pets." Evacuees should bring food and liquids for the journey, money, and key papers such as insurance policies.
Readers were warned "when you are released from refuge you may feel that everything is back to normal", but it would be a changed normality of constant washing, dusting and the shedding of clothes layers.
That said, the state was optimistic to a Trump-like degree that the crisis could be hurried on its way. Animals could resume grazing after the fields got a trim.
Farmers were told to "cut this contaminated grass and rake it off for safe disposal (preferably burying it). Use a nitrogenous fertiliser to bring on a fresh growth."
As for animals displaying radiation sickness, consumers were assured that while "the bones and offal would be dangerous to use... the flesh may not be dangerously affected". It added: "Milk and eggs are both liable to be affected, but only if the cows and hens have eaten contaminated food."
If Bás Beatha had ever been called into use, it's a fair bet there would be no one left to read today's Irish Independent.
In May 1986, days after Chernobyl exploded and with Ronald Reagan threatening 'Star Wars' strikes on Russia, Bás Beatha was still the go-to publication for a nuclear crisis.
When the Dáil heard that Civil Defence numbers were hopelessly inadequate to implement the booklet's plan - several counties had no units at all - the position of FG's defence spokesman was that "we should be very proud" of the ones we had.
But to close on a positive note, Bás Beatha does contain at least one line that can speak directly to us today: "This strange existence in refuge will eventually end."