At the gym with my personal trainer, I’m even more breathless than usual. I don’t notice it initially because whenever he instructs me to do anything other than “Rest” or “Have some water”, it leads to my being breathless.

But back home after gym, I’m still struggling to catch my breath, so I’m lying on my sofa, panicking. If you were my husband or son, you’d no doubt shrug your shoulders and say, “Nu?” because I am usually worrying about something and, at present, there is no shortage of fodder for my need to fret.

Is it possible that I’ve contracted the virus again? I am pretty positive I had it way back in April, when the world-beating testing system we have today was but a pipe dream. I have read occasional reports of people becoming reinfected, but it seems incredibly rare.

While I’m sinking deeper into a mire of “What if…?” scenarios, it suddenly strikes me that, also, my bra is feeling really tight. Gentlemen of a sensitive disposition, look away now. For gym, I wear a special sports bra. This is designed to keep one’s wobbly assets as still as possible to prevent discomfort (or ogling). Mine is not dissimilar to a Tudor armoured breast-plate, but fractionally smaller and with natty neon-orange panels. I never wear it all day long because it’s so rigid, it feels like being constrained in an iron lung. Oh.

It’s significantly tighter than it was before because I’ve put on weight over the last six months, due to a compulsion to calm my anxiety by a) baking and b) eating.

I go upstairs to remove the dayglo bra. And b-r-e-a-t-h-e. Aaaaaaaaaaaah. No longer breathless. Symptoms cured. Is this what Trump means when he says we mustn’t let the virus dominate us? I showed it who’s boss. Sure — the problem in this instance was my too-tight bra not the disease, but still I kicked its ass! Mazeltov to me! Cue triumphant accompanying music as I stride about the balcony displaying my leadership prowess (with a top on, in case you were wondering).

The next day, I take my first trip on the Tube in over six months. To distract myself from mild anxiety — husband Larry, an optimist in every cell of his being, had promised that the Tube would be “virtually empty”, but this turns out not to be the case — I count the number of passengers to determine the level of compliance as regards mask-wearing.

A standard London tube carriage has 42 seats, and 14 are occupied, so that’s exactly one-third. Of these 14, one has his mask beneath his nose, in what seems to be becoming the fashion (entirely useless, but hey, it’s vaguely adjacent to part of my face, so I’m doing my bit, ok?); one has it down by his chin; and one is eating an entire meal during the journey so has dispensed with it altogether.

That makes the non-compliance rate just over 20 per cent. Of course, it’s an entirely useless figure because it’s one Tube carriage at one point in the day, but it makes me wonder if it’s actually quite typical? Boris has labelled this maverick tendency as an indicator that we are a “freedom-loving” people. Presumably, his advisers have counselled against referring to a portion of the electorate as “stroppy, selfish tossers”.

I have come into town by Tube to meet my agent, Charlotte, so we can talk about the first draft of my next novel.

I get out at Goodge Street, where, as a nice surprise, she is waiting for me outside the station as if I have just disembarked from an exhausting 10-hour flight rather than a 15-minute journey on the Northern line.

We bump elbows and walk along Goodge Street to find a café with tables outside. I notice white-painted arrows on the pavement. Then I look around and spot small signs on some lamp-posts. Pedestrians are being asked to observe a one-way system indicated by the world’s most discreet signage. The whole of the southern pavement is supposedly westbound; the northern one, eastbound. I suggest we cross the road to be compliant. Charlotte, polite as ever, doesn’t point out to me that clearly no-one else is aware of the system or, if they are, they’re ignoring it.

After our meeting, I head to the industrial scaffolding specialists where I buy my bras to select a bra that will allow me the luxury of breathing. Then back to the tube. On the way, I pass a pub with a hand-written sign on the door — in big black capitals: MASKS ON!

Turning into Tottenham Court Road, I spot more understated white arrows, though in this case the “up” and “down” arrows are almost immediately adjacent. I am wondering which bright spark honestly thought that anyone would observe a one-way system on the pavements of Tottenham Court Road, one of the busiest streets in central London.

Perhaps this misunderstanding is key? The regulations consistently fail to take account of how people actually behave. If you shut pubs and restaurants at 10pm, of course some people will carry on drinking elsewhere — probably packed in each other’s houses. They won’t all meekly go home and say, “Well, that’s enough beer for today”.

And when it comes to signage, subtlety is not your friend. Councils, transport chiefs, and government planners, take a leaf from that pub-owner’s sign. Make your signs unmissable and crystal-clear. Never mind “Please wear a face-covering”. It’s: “MASKS ON!”

Claire Calman’s fifth novel, Growing Up for Beginners, is out now