Manhattan is taking a nap. That is how I am trying to think of my voluntary self-isolation as the city, along with the rest of the world, comes to grips with the not-so-brave new world living under the cloud of the Coronavirus pandemic. To think of this break as anything other than a brief hibernation is just too horrible to contemplate, so I am attempting to enjoy the eerie silence and fill my time with activities I normally claim I am too busy to attempt.

Like becoming fluent in French (I am probably about 50% at the moment) and Spanish (0.000000000000001%. I can order a taco and a glass of wine). I am going to read Michelle Obama’s book, Becoming, which has been languishing on my bookshelf since Christmas and also the 30+ books I’ve downloaded from the Internet (message to self: downloading a book doesn’t mean it’s Mission Accomplished).

I’m also going to finish watching series 5 of Madam Secretary before moving on to series 6 when, I hear, the good lady becomes President. Gosh, it’s a tough show, though. Does anyone, apart from Russell Jackson (exquisitely portrayed by Željko Ivanek) have a clue what they are talking about, least of all the Madam herself, Elizabeth McCord?

“The Russians blah blah blah Nigerian minister blahdeblah Philippines gobbledygook.” On and on and on, everyone spouting incomprehensible lines from a script while staring into the middle distance and just praying for the next break from filming. Thank goodness they put it out of its misery in December.

I’m going to do more cooking. I cook every day but now I’ve subscribed to New York Times Food I’m going to try some of the many thousands of recipes they have online (second message to self: paying $40pa to a food app doesn’t mean you’ve cooked anything).

Having suspended my gym membership (to every cloud, eh?), I’m going to do more walking. The city is in bigtime spring mode now and the sun is shining. There are hardly any cars on the roads, even fewer people, and I can happily walk to Central Park without fear of being killed or trodden on.

Yes, I know that going for a walk means that I am not a totally committed self-isolationist; it’s like saying you’re a vegetarian when you eat chicken, or a vegan who eats cheese (I confess to having been both; now I just call myself a lying hog). But given that I can now walk miles and count the people I see on one hand, I feel I’m a relatively low risk, both to myself and others.

It’s ironic that in an age of social networking, social distancing is the new black, but then social networking was always about breaking real human contact and establishing virtual friendships and relationships; in fact, social distancing has always been at its heart, so this enforced lack of communication feels rather apt – the prophecy fulfilled.

I’m enjoying not hearing the constant honking of car horns entering the Lincoln Tunnel at Rush Hour; the dogs not barking on my apartment floor when delivery people arrive because, quite simply, our building isn’t letting anyone in; the quiet of sitting at a bar, finally being able to capture every word of other people’s conversations – yes, even the couple last night, trying to enjoy a first date and making a real hash of it . . .

Shoulda left it. But they were making so many mistakes and it was all going to end in tears. He was being critical of her; she went on the attack. I intervened, he confessed he was insecure, she became more interested in who I had on my Instagram page than in him, and the evening ended well for all. Especially for me, anyway.

“OMG!” she cried, opening my Instagram page. “You’re in Influencer!” Who knew it? I still have no idea what she was talking about, but they left happily. Joe Allen are quite keen that during these quiet times, I sit in my favorite corner, dishing out relationship advice. They suggested calling it Jaci Unhinged. Nothing new there.

My social distancing did not extend to my hair stylist, Caesar, and I had to visit him yesterday as by my standards I was a veritable Rapunzel. I was doused in sanitizer before anyone could commence work and then had a very interesting time learning about birds and, in particular, parrots – a species, it transpired, Caesar knows a great deal about.

Did you know that most birds have just one mate for life, and parrots don’t want another one when their one and only love dies? They even pluck out their feathers with grief. They live for 50 to 100 years but become sexually mature at the age of two. Apparently, that’s when their personalities change and they become very aggressive (both males and females); they also become very possessive of their owners. They are also, says Caesar, even more intelligent than dogs and pipe up about things they’ve witnessed months later (spooky; I can barely remember this morning these days).

I hope I get a couple of parrots for Jaci Unhinged; I could really teach them a thing or two about possessive behavior (which reminds me: I really need to find myself a therapist).

Today is Saturday and I plan to clean my apartment (this blog is merely work avoidance), start on my taxes, write a reference for a friend, eat the ratatouille I made yesterday, open that bottle of Whispering Angel (I lie; I’m already halfway into it), go for a walk, pop into Joe Allen (touting for business), catch up on some TV shows that have come highly recommended, take Michelle Obama’s book off the shelf (or will I?) and spend another three hours reading about what my chances are of dying from Coronavirus.

That’s the trouble with social distancing; it makes you focus too much on mortality; we are sociable creatures and need human touch, both physically and metaphorically.

Oh, sod it; I don’t think I can manage it, after all. I’m just going to go out, throw caution to the wind and bag myself a parrot.