Thirty-six litres of water. Two dozen tins of beans. Six packs of disinfectant wipes.
Three apple-green Dettol sprays (it kills 99pc of all known bacteria, while having the pleasing side-effect of making your house smell like an orchard). Five 2kg bags of rice (I'd have bought more, but there was an upper limit).
An assortment of chickpeas and lentils. Six large bags of pasta. Dozens of cans of tinned fruit. Four tins of meatballs. Which, let's face it, even in the event of a nuclear holocaust, will never be eaten. I tried mentally picturing what they might look like if I tipped them out onto my nicest dinner plate, but all I could think of was Pedigree Chum. Nevertheless, in they all went to last weekend's online shop.
Once I'd finished, I realised it would be far too embarrassing to have it all delivered to our house in the usual fashion because I couldn't face the inevitable inquisition: Yes, this is all coronavirus-related, no, I'm not normally completely insane, and yes, I will accept farfalle as a substitution for penne, which is all sold out (see? I knew I wasn't the only one).
So instead I dispatched my husband off to the click and collect facility. He arrived home looking very confused. There's no milk, he said. Or bread. Or cheese, or even wine. Or any of our normal weekly shop. What's wrong with you? This has all the hallmarks of something done in a total panic.
When I explained to him that's exactly what it was - a weekly shop completed in a state of growing paranoia due to the growing threat of an uncontained Covid-19 outbreak - he looked sceptical. "But what exactly are you planning to do?" he pressed, unloading 15 bags of ground Kenyan coffee from a crate. "Open a coronavirus cafe?"
To be fair, in that case of all the extra coffee, my finger just slipped. I don't even drink coffee. But the raised eyebrows from family members didn't end there. You loathe tinned fruit, my mother observed, as she eyed up the tottering tower of canned pears, pineapples and peaches in the corner of the kitchen.
She's right. I do loathe tinned fruit. It brings me back to long-forgotten wet Sunday afternoons, when the ritual roast dinner always wound up with a bowl of sickly sweet peaches, swamped in sugary syrup, Like Angel Delight and Jif lemon juice, they taste pure 1985. But all of that is beside the point. Tinned fruit will see us through the apocalypse; I'm sure of it. And failing that, it'll come in handy for the trifle next Christmas.
I should point out that I am not normally the type to do any sort of advance planning. In fact, the irony of stockpiling household essentials in a domestic set-up where we typically run out of milk at least twice a week is not lost on me.
But I do feel a little better knowing that in the event of being confined to the house for a period, we'll all have something to eat, even if it's vile.
And to those who say I have lost my reason - ie, pretty much everyone - I say: Do you not remember the Great Bread Shortage of 2018, when a light sprinkling of snow during Storm Emma sent shoppers into a bread-buying frenzy that saw every sliced pan between Belmullet and Bray vanish without trace?
Surely a deadly plague, wafting in from China and crash-landing with this weekend's deluge of Italian rugby tourists, who we seem to be content to allow into the country without so much as a thermometer in their mouths at the airport, will have a far more alarming effect on supermarket supply chains?
On a more serious note, though, given the long history of general ineptitude of our public authorities, it is little wonder that some of us are feeling a bit panicked. Our track record in preparing for large-scale emergencies isn't stellar. Remember Joe Jacob and his iodine tablets?
That was a while ago, but we still live in a country where, as one health official reminded us on the 'Sean O'Rourke Show', far from being prepared for a major outbreak of infection disease, in fact our intensive care beds are already 94pc full, so there's virtually no extra capacity for people who become critically ill. As if any of the people on trolleys in A&E this winter didn't already know that the hospitals were stuffed to the gills.
The HSE has been making noises about creating extra capacity, but again, having tried and failed for over a decade to build a children's hospital - they're still building, and the costs are heading for €2bn - could you really be confident it will manage this in a timely and effective manner?
But worst of all is the decision to adopt a ridiculously paternalistic approach to sharing information about the location of the confirmed cases, allowing rumour to take the place of fact. The thinking seems to be that if they refuse to reveal these details it will suppress panic.
On the contrary - it's precisely the lack of specific information that will leave people feeling extra-anxious, because it limits people's opportunity to make informed decisions for themselves about where they will go and when. It's easy to tell people not to panic, but I know I'm far from alone in being concerned for elderly parents or people with compromised immune systems, or even the problem of feeding my own family in the event of the shops closing. Maybe I am being ridiculous, with my pineapples and my meatballs and my half a tonne of coffee. But in the absence of any concrete information, panicking seems a reasonable response.