I am neither an outdoors nor a countryside person. I am an urban-bred bookworm and TV addict. My bones are soft, my flesh is pallid and fresh air is my nemesis. I like my blood caffeinated, not oxygenated.

But habits are there to be broken. Sometimes – especially in unusual or extreme times like what we (I think we can generally agree no matter which side of the various divides we fall) are living through now – even the softest, pallidest of us need to shake things up a bit. So I did. I left south-east London last week and deliberately took myself off for a long weekend in Norfolk. And I didn’t just reproduce my normal life inside a cottage either. I disconnected the Wi-Fi, threw a sheet over the telly, and went out walking instead, without even so much as an emergency book in my bag, let alone my phone.

It was real countryside. Blimey. Grass. Sheep. Gnarly trees and gnarlier farmers. There were birds flying around that were not diseased pigeons. I even saw a deer and it looked so much like it does in pictures that I thought I was accidentally watching TV again.

“Happiness is getting acquainted with Mother Nature” Lucy Mangan steps outside