While the preppers gloat,the rest of us walk around like stunned rabbits,at a carefully maintained 1.5 metre-distance from one another,staring into our own,specifically tailored,headlights. How will I feed my family if I can no longer work? Who will take the children if my husband and I get ill? And for me,what will I do if my elderly mother and aunt in Sydney get sick?

I tell my son that,even if we do find ourselves in a protracted period of social isolation,things will get easier over time. We just need to settle into this new normal. Yet I worry that I’m deceiving him,and myself.

I’ve always found the prepping attitude distasteful – the idea that people would focus so many resources on protecting themselves,rather than working with others to avert the threats that we collectively face. Yet now that the pressure’s on,it has sometimes felt like those who acted quickly,to look after number one,are the ones who’ve been rewarded. They’ve got shelves full of rice and hand sanitiser and toilet paper,while the rest of us struggle to cobble together a meal out of various scraps of pasta we found at the back of the pantry and some tomato paste that’s only slightly over its use-by date.

But maybe there’s nothing new in this. Haven’t we always treated the very rich as if they were the most important and admirable people in our society? And what are the wealthy,except the biggest and most successful hoarders?

Yet as the age of coronavirus settles in,and we start to glimpse the outline of that new normal,there are signs of hope. Last week,I woke to a text message from a woman I hardly know,the daughter of one of my mother’s old friends,asking whether she could do anything for her. Another friend dropped off a box of groceries at my aunt’s flat. He’s never met my aunt,but he knew she was on her own,and he wanted to lend a hand.