So, Lockdown 2.0 is upon us. Is everyone calling it that because, brilliant though the first lockdown was, now it seems we need a new, “improved” version…? The day after it was announced, I had to venture to Oxford Street in a one-woman attempt to save the UK economy before such frivolity would be out of bounds for a month. I am not usually a devotee of shopping as a leisure activity — unless it’s for fresh fruit and veg at some gorgeous market in France. Then I have to be dragged away, kicking and screaming “But did you see those tomatoes?! Yes, we already have three kilos, but I could tell those ones are even better...”).

But my breadknife, which my dad bought in the 1970s (see, I really don’t buy new things just for the sake of it), needs replacing. It can still manage chollah, but when it comes to crusty sourdough, bagels, or my nutritious but molecularly dense wholemeal, the knife can’t cope any more.

Obviously, for very good reasons, there are now restrictions on buying sharp knives online, so I have to trek into town to John Lewis. This sort of trip, to which I barely gave a second thought in the past, now feels like an intrepid adventure, so I must make the most of it. I arrange to see my sister Stephanie while I’m there. She lives in south London, and when we meet up, it’s usually in the centre of town so as to be equally inconvenient for us both.

I drive to a spot outside the congestion zone to park, then walk to the restaurant to meet my sister. As we must eat outside, I wear my warmest coat. We have delicious pizzas, though they go from piping hot to stone cold in about a minute, then head to John Lewis. The knives are in a locked glass case. It’s busy — clearly everyone has dashed out before lockdown to buy emergency pastry cutters — but I track down a member of staff and point to the desired knife. He fetches me one and explains that he will have to escort me to the till. En route, I spot a cute mug, so I tell him I want to carry on shopping. He says he’ll put the breadknife safely behind the till, so I can pay for it when I’m ready.

It’s then that I am distracted by some blue stoneware plates. Husband Larry has strong views about my tendency to buy “unnecessary” china. I point out that other women acquire Prada handbags at £1,400 a pop; if I am tempted by a teacup and saucer for £12, is that so bad? Still, the cupboards are full. The shelves are full. At one point, I had a spare teaset in a box beneath the bed. I sought help from CAA (Ceramics Addicts Anonymous) but the first meeting was on a Sunday morning and no-one else turned up as they were all at boot fairs.

I stroke the plates. The glaze is gorgeously matt, the blue nicely uneven. Maybe I could buy just a single plate and keep it hidden beneath a loose floorboard, like a drugs stash? I take a photo of the plate in case I am overcome with the desire to buy one online during lockdown. There are women who have pictures of their lovers on their phones; I have a photo of a plate. To describe my life as “tame” would be a serious understatement. I get the mug, then ponder some new tea-towels as the ones we have are looking a bit worn down by daily life (aren’t we all?).

The queue to pay is unmarked, so it is not clear which way to line up. Raised clear screens divide one till from another, as well as the screens between cashiers and customers. The lack of signage coupled with the profusion of screens create the impression of one of those infuriating puzzles where you have to coax a small ball around a Perspex maze. What is the correct route to enter? Will I ever manage to get out again?

After the usual game of 20 questions — Do I need a bag? Am I a John Lewis member? Am I paying by card? — the cashier wraps each item and I pay. By now, I am sweating profusely. The coat I chose for its warmth proves suffocating indoors. All I can think about is escaping into the fresh air. It is only when I reach my car, 20 minutes’ walk away, that I realise, yes, of course, the breadknife is still behind the till, waiting for me.

Anyone know where I can buy ready-sliced bagels?

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