Here we are again. The streets are empty, everything is shut and we’re now confined to our homes for all but a handful of purposes. My daily walk in the park is no longer for enjoyment, just pure state sanctioned exercise.

Well-versed in coronavirus restrictions, as we all are, I am not taking to this latest announcement as a bright-eyed novice. I am a hardened veteran now. This time, in lockdown 2.0, I am doing things a little differently.

I will no longer pretend to enjoy working from home. Have office dwellers made real and drastic strides about the possibility of flexible remote working? Sure. But it was far easier to call over to a neighbouring desk than use some ghastly corporate productivity application to craft a message that sounds both professional and friendly in tone.

And, nine months on, the spare room that I half-heartedly converted into an office at the start of the pandemic is still just a cheap desk and a computer monitor in a room full of junk. If you insist on making me do a video conference, you will have to deal with a mountain of to-donate clothes piled up behind me. It is your own fault: an email probably would have sufficed anyway.

For socialising, I will no longer tolerate virtual pub quizzes. I’ve had my fill, my general knowledge has expanded and I am richer, better informed person for it. But no more pub quizzes until I can safely return to a pub, that is my solemn vow.

Even catch-ups with friends can go on the back burner in January. Because, in lockdown, every conversation is the same. We talk about coronavirus as if, in our infinite wisdom and distinct lack of infectious disease expertise, we would have cleared the country of Covid-19 months ago. I will lament about some event in my diary, scheduled for a few months down the line, that will almost certainly be cancelled. “Well, you never know,” my friend will say meekly, lying through their teeth to try and make me feel better. “We might be out of this by then.”

Finally, getting dressed is going out the window. My outfits now fall in to one of three categories: daytime pyjamas, nighttime pyjamas and exercise gear. Coronavirus has made me wonder why I ever tolerated wearing a bra with an underwire. Well, no more.

The point is, this lockdown, I am simply going to hunker down and wait for spring. No sourdough starters or productive new hobbies for me. With some trashy TV, leftover Christmas chocolate and complete contempt for the governmental mismanagement that has led us here, I will lean into the misery and emerge at the end of January – who are we kidding, the end of March – ready to look for a silver lining.

Admittedly, last time, that silver lining came largely in the summer, usually in the form of a takeaway pint in the park. But, if Glasgow City Council still insist on being buzzkills about it, I’ll simply revert to my teenage years and hit Kelvingrove with a water bottle full of gin. Please don’t dob me in, needs must.