Why let a thing like lockdown spoil our holiday fun?

If you’re sick of puzzles and Uno, here’s a fun new lockdown game: pick a holiday spot in Europe, Tuscany or Majorca perhaps, and spend a few hours working out how you might travel there this summer. In my sister’s house, we’ve devoted the past week to increasingly elaborate discussions about how to reach my father and stepmother’s place in Spain.

Shall we drive? Take a ferry to Bilbao? Kayak across the Channel and tunnel through Normandy? Should we walk as if pilgrims heading for the Camino de Santiago? Shall I get a bicep tattoo and pretend to be a lorry driver, since they’re expected to be exempt from the 14 days’ quarantine?

I suspect less planning went into the Hatton Garden heist and it all might be for naught anyway as who can tell where we’ll be by August?

No need for gloom and despair, however, because I’ve come up with a few top tips for those of us who may be holidaying at home but want to pretend we’re sunbathing in the Algarve or eating souvlaki in Corfu. Why let a little thing like lockdown spoil the fun, eh?

Morrisons has announced “speedy shopping” lanes outside its branches for those wanting to do a “quick basket shop”: perfect timing. Pack a wheelie bag with outfits for six months, join the queue and shout “I’ve got speedy boarding!” at anybody who looks at you with narrowed eyes.

Get up extremely early to put a towel over one of the kitchen chairs. Do not let any other member of your family sit on that chair.

Demand 93 croissants for breakfast and then ask, “anyone for a game of tennis?” even if you don’t have a tennis court.

Run a cold bath and spend 20 minutes gingerly lowering yourself in. Shout “it’s lovely once you’re in” at everyone else downstairs.

Buy 11 books and then fail to read a single one.

Turn off the internet router and watch teenagers become agitated.

Tell everyone that there will be a family outing one afternoon to a local site of historical interest. Ignore

Talk English very slowly and loudly to the newsagent when you pick up your copy of The Sunday Telegraph, even though you’ve known him for years and are, in fact, godparent to one of his children.

Rub a bottle of Ambre Solaire into your own eyes.

Visit the chemist to buy something embarrassing and, instead of explaining what you need, act out an unfortunate charade of symptoms as a queue builds up.