I've taken to breaking the law on a daily basis, cocking a snook at health restrictions and living dangerously.
Setting the clock for 5am and slipping into trackie gear, I edge out into the city's pre-dawn darkness to breathe the sweet air of social freedom in a place that now looks so different.
After being cooped up for seven days, confined within the small urban patch that is home, the desire to venture along those familiar streets and alleyways is overpowering.
As the virus bites ever deeper into the daily niceties of life we took for granted just a month ago, it is no longer good citizenship to be out in the daytime unless necessary.
The simple pleasures of life - a morning run, an afternoon promenade or an evening stroll - don't seem right somehow in a world where the mild inconvenience of yesterday is quickly mutating into a dread of tomorrow.
The silence is deafening as the darkness of night bleeds away in those early glimmers of dawn - no buses, taxis or bin trucks, not even the tell-tale fast food wrappings of late-night revellers. Occasionally I'll see another rambler, a shape in the morning mist, keeping his distance, content to traipse the hushed sidewalks, alone with his thoughts.
Rebecca Solnit put it best in her book, 'Wanderlust: A History of Walking': "Cities have always offered anonymity, variety and conjunction, qualities best basked in by walking: one does not have to go into the bakery or the fortune-teller's, only to know that one might."
As this damnable infection seeps ever deeper into our existence, it continues to blot away the everyday sanctuaries of normal living - sports, entertainment, excitement and spontaneity. Even the simple joy of community is threatened as our urge to congregate, an instinct buried particularly deep in the Irish DNA, is balanced against the new laws of social distancing.
One of my neighbours, an elderly ex-merchant seaman who always delights with ribald tales of the Orient back in the 1940s, still sits on his window sill every evening, puffing on a rollie: "T'wud be easier give up the auld baccy than the bit of chat" is his standard refrain. It is him, and his aged cohorts, who immediately spring to mind when contemplating the social fallout of this insidious pandemic.
Keeping our social distance may be right for good health - but at what cost to those to whom isolation and loneliness are spectres almost worse than death itself?
There's an old and faded anniversary card pinned to the bedroom mirror in our house, adorned with a simple salutation: 'Take care of each other'. It has never seemed more relevant.
Rest the kids' eyes and give their ears a treat
Schools have been closed for over a week now, and the warning signs of trouble and strife are gathering.
Cloistered with work-from-home parents is a powder-keg recipe with a short fuse, especially when even six-year-olds will eventually tire of umpteen replays of 'Frozen 2'.
Rather than keep eyes glued to the screen, why not entertain their ears? If we adults can while away hours in 'West Cork' and 'Second Captains' podcasts, why not offer the little folks a different dimension? Turn them on to 'KidNuz', 'Circle Round' and 'Wow in the World' - and breathe in the silence.
Doling out justice with a heart of gold
Frank Caprio is my new Judge Judy. The magistrate on TV's 'Caught in Providence', he asked a homeless man with a parking ticket what job he had.
"I was a newspaper boy, your honour," came the reply. "So was I once," said the judge, quashing the fine and giving him $50.