WEEK two in isolation, and a second week without my beloved pubs.

A lot has changed since I last wrote to you.

The streets have emptied, shops have now been ordered to shut, and I have developed a new pastime to while away the hours.

My latest hobby? Whenever somebody walks past my window I tut loudly, shake my head and mutter something under my breath about making irresponsible decisions and the Public Health England figures.

I have also taken to waving at cats. A first sign of madness? Maybe.

I spent most of Wednesday thinking it was Tuesday and there have been moments where I’ve considered daubing a smiling face onto an old basketball and calling it Wilson.

But I’m always quick to cast away the idea.

I write this sitting on my sofa cum office cum bar area, which has now become a semi-permanent residence for me - two round indentations of my rump now carved into the centre of the settee.

Yet, despite all this unprecedented change (and the unprecedented increase in the use of the word unprecedented) I decided to cling to some semblance of normality and honour my age-old midweek ritual - treating myself to a tipple or two.

I ambled over to the cupboard, fighting a dead leg caused by the exorbitant amount of time I had spent with my feet up on the coffee table.

Dragging my numb limb behind me in a zombie-like lollop, I slowly made my way towards the double doors and swung them open, hoping to be met by the glorious sight of a beer bottle.

But there was nothing of the sort, I had not stocked up very well before all this had started.

I could only see a couple of tins of chopped tomatoes and a half-full bag of penne pasta.

Though, if recent reports are anything to go by, this pairing could make me something of a millionaire in this new world given their scarcity.

I shifted the pack of pasta to one side and glanced my old nemesis from last week.

The bottle of red wine fronted with a shining golden eagle on its label.

The Shiraz was, rather intimidatingly, called Wolf Blass.

I twisted the bottle around 180 degrees in my hands and was quickly informed that it had travelled from Australia, through Middlesex, to reach me here in sunny Brighton.

"Quite the heritage," I told Mrs PubSpy.

"Middlesex and Australia, staples of the wine industry."

I know very, very little about wine.

I whisked the bottle away to the living room, straight past a shelf full of glasses - at two weeks of isolation we were deep into drinking from the bottle territory.

Also, there are no wine glasses in the house.

I have found it incredible how quickly personal standards slip when you know you will not be seen by anyone but those you live with during the day.

My usually immaculate self-care routine quickly crumbled into an existence not dissimilar to a feral lab rat in an odd scientific experiment.

Not three days ago, I had eaten two entire Easter eggs while re-watching highlights of England's run to the 2018 World Cup semi-final, even going so far as to celebrate Harry Kane's second penatly against Panama.

I can offer no explanation for my actions.

My relationship with Mrs PubSpy has also come under threat since the two of us have been squirrelled away together.

My affections for her are now rivalled by my undying fondness for my pyjama bottoms and fur-lined slippers, which had rarely left my lower-half in the past week.

I reunited said pyjama bottoms with the divot in the sofa they had become so accustomed to.

Channelling my inner Jack Sparrow, I took a swig from the bottle and allowed the red liquid to glide down my gullet.

It wasn't even all that bad, far better than many of the vinos I had the displeasure of tasting in the past.

But it was not beer, and that was a major mark against its name for me.

This got me to thinking about Boris's words.

We should all avoid non-essential travel.

Essential travel sounded somewhat subjective to me, and I was terribly thirsty.

Parched in fact.

The sort of thirst which can only really be quenched by a pint.

I glanced at the street outside and shook my head.

As a slightly rotund man sipping from a bottle of red wine he didn't even like in Sussex, who was I to question this country's top scientists and medical experts?

Stay home everyone.

Casa del PubSpy

Deserted street

Brighton

Decor

Four stars

Mrs PubSpy has great taste

Food and drink

One star

What food and drink?

Price

Five stars

Another freebie for me

Atmosphere

Three stars

Crowds from Russia 2018 livened up the place

Staff

One star

I may need to advertise