One of the more curious aspects of the Covid-19 crisis is that we are all going through it. Like a world war, it's a shared cultural and historical experience that we will all have our own unique reference points to, and when it passes - and it will - our culture will then come to terms with how we record it and indeed integrate it into our story.
Except in the United States, of course, where the Republicans and Fox News will try to do a Sandy Hook and pretend it either didn't happen or was somehow created by Barack Obama, but I digress.
Remember that it wasn't long, for example, before TV and movies were coming up with storylines about 9/11, and not just direct historical retelling. The much- under-rated NY fire department dramedy 'Rescue Me' was set in a post-9/11 fire station which had lost many of its crew on that terrible day, and the survivors found themselves acting as de facto wives and husbands to the families of their fallen comrades. 'Law & Order' featured stories of people who had used the events of 9/11 to disappear and reinvent themselves.
As a result, one has to approach writing a column about being a single middle- aged man in lockdown with a certain amount of self-awareness as to the fact my situation is far from singular.
But that doesn't stop me coming to some conclusions from my own perspective, all the same.
Such as the importance of putting on trousers and tucking your shirt in.
Seriously, I've had to be very firm with myself, getting up and being at my desk for 9am at the latest and, yes, dressed for actual work. As it happens, I've turned this into a bit of a useful exercise every morning, in that I've pulled out all those clothes I have not worn in years and so try on something new every morning. Doesn't fit? In the charity bag. Every day the wardrobe is getting more roomy and I'm confronting that great lie: sure, if I lose a bit of weight that might fit me again... he said, as he valiantly worked his way through a pizza.
The second thing I do is to set alarms on my phone for during the day, in either 20- minute units or on the hour if I'm working at something that will take longer, because you can lose a day so easily. Go on, what day is it today? No checking!
Suddenly it's quarter to five and you're still in your underpants looking at an empty packet of biscuits and wondering just how exactly do they get the figs into the fig rolls?
Third rule is to identify what you want to watch and set a time as opposed to endlessly flicking through telly or Netflix. Although I will admit to taking a weird sort of comfort in re-runs of 'The Professionals', 'The Sweeney', 'Kojak' and 'Quincy'.
You know, the shows where reassuringly middle-aged men have girlfriends at least 20 years younger than them? On one of those odd UK channels that is 1970s re-runs interspersed with ads full of people trying to avoid their ungrateful children disposing of their cadavers in wheelie bins as they finally get their greedy mitts on the family home.
A friend of mine told me of a little ritual she has developed in her apartment. She gathered all the "nice things" in her apartment, from chocolate to hotel shower gels she never used to books she hasn't read and made a little shop in a wardrobe, and when she started to get low she'd go in and treat herself.
When she told me, my first reaction was that I thought she had gone crackers, but then I suddenly realised I'd inadvertently done the same thing myself. I'd gathered all the books I haven't yet read on a single set of shelves and found myself perusing my own mini-bookshop pulling books down and going: "Oh, that looks good!"
Now I have my own in-house bookshop and, I'll be honest, it is bringing me a glimmer of pleasure.
The lockdown has also affected my reading habits, it has to be said. I find myself setting aside reading time and finally beginning to make some impact on that mocking bibliothecal Ben Nevis, even setting aside a slowly growing pile of completed books as a marker of progress and time well spent.
I'm also following a rule I only set a few years ago: if I'm not enjoying a book two chapters in, stop and move on to the next one.
The state-sanctioned evening walk ("Going for my evening Harris") is great for audiobooks and podcasts but also a reminder of the weirdness.
I walked up the Stillorgan dual carriageway - literally in the middle of the road - at half-eight one night in eerie silence, spotting a shopping bag of sauces and spices left at the bus stop outside St John of God.
In the car park of the local primary, outside the main doors, a lone football sits, almost defiantly, like a promise that We Will Return and this ball will once again be kicked about by kids.
People's gardens look well-tended, and there is a preponderance of candles and fairy lights even in the empty ones. Same with apartment balconies, like little beacons that their owners can look out at to see something pretty in this strange time.
It would be almost beautiful were it not a symptom of something so terrible, and yet our primary weapon too.
Sitting on your balcony, putting tealights in washed out jam jars, making do and doing what you can to stay in, that's your contribution.
You're not on the frontline, in the HSE or the supermarkets, but staying in is your bit, because Big C hates that.