Tracey is pleasantly surprised to see Reg doing Joe Wicks’ morning P.E. workout on YouTube, in the living room. She thinks that might be an erection in his shorts and stares at the dried banana in her muesli until she thinks of something else. It must have been a shadow.

Steve and Jolene are a high-earning career couple, terrified of the stock market plunge. Their live-in nanny, Tammy feels rough and is taking precautionary self-isolation. This means they have to look after 4-year-old Drogo full-time. They are never in the same room together. A digital-meeting relay begins and runs all day, taking turns to tag in and out to sit with Drogo as the other shouts at other shouts at a screen in the home office. They both wonder how Tammy copes with this dick-head every day. Jolene breaks protocol and joins a conference call whilst she is on duty and whilst distracted, Drogo brings down and damages Steve’s ‘Bed Time Boy’ sculpture, which he bought after 36-hours on cocaine in the mid-90s.

Terry is apoplectic. He could have sworn it was black bin day. It is blue bin day, which means he not only has to haul the black one back around, but also trample down a blue one overflowing with paper. Lara tells him if he spent less time reading up on Covid-19 conspiracy theories about Huawei sponsoring a vaccine which will turn us into mobile 5G routers, they wouldn’t have to look at a scruffy kitchen with paper strewn around all weekend. He refuses to use his one legal walk out as self-flagellation.

Floyd has a cruel hangover. The thick waves of self-loathing wash over him. He had a night out in the house. It started with a quick pint of ale and a cigarette on the front doorstep before moving onto the living room where he had a shot of some red Aftershock he’s kept since 2001. Charlie, his wife joined him for a Prosecco in the kitchen before putting Mikey, their toddler to bed. He doesn’t remember the rest, but Charlie won’t speak to him and the neighbour is playing music far louder than normal at 7am, in a possible act of retribution.

The sounds of hoses, hoovers, strimmers and drills create a symphony of sedation around George’s local area, which has never been so well kept. Through a hole in the shed wall, he can chart the movements of his wife, Janice. So far, she has not thought to look inside his dusty sanctuary. When she does, there will be many loaded questions about why it is completely bare. For 7 years he has simply come here to remedy his domestic fatigue. Janice is a devout Catholic and in the absence of church gatherings, she plans to sit outside it at 11am, at least two metres from fellow worshipper Cyril where they will sing hymns and drink red wine. Provided this occurs, Frank from next door will bring around enough grass smattered bits of equipment and a sandwich bag’s worth of sawdust to help George create a convincing facade, given the hours the ex-schoolteacher will spend here during this time.

Lloyd smiles at more people in the street than he did before this. It brings about an irrational paranoia that children will be scared of his lack of chin. He wonders if there is a register for such an offence.

Stanley’s vision is blurred from intense concentration on his 10,000-piece jigsaw, which dominates the conservatory floor. He had it custom made for this time indoors and it depicts his late wife, Sue. The grandfather clock in the hallway echoes, it’s thick/thock rhythm and the 12-hour burn candles help him feel cosy and maintain concentration. Three days into its construction, he realises something is wrong. The printers have mucked about with the photograph. Not only is the top of her head cut off, but they’ve skewed the proportions, giving her the suddenly unnervingly large, tall face. He angrily snatches up the phone to call and berate them. As he waits for the recorded Covid-19 courtesy out-of-office note to play out, he swings a slippered-foot towards Dylan, his cat, who flicks a part of Sue’s stretched lip around the floor with a curled paw.

Billie has never seen The Loaded Gun gentlemen’s club so packed. Wild-eyes at the peep holes are tight little currants rich with vitamin X, somehow hungrier for a look-see than usual. Sour mouths chew thin, loveless lips behind protective masks issued by the germaphobe owner. On her cigarette break, Billie wipes a hole in the dirt of a third-floor window and watches the scene down into the alley. Queueing outside is a new one. Lonely men in cheap trainers and stained slacks pace on the spot, two-metres apart, ten-deep. Hands clench around cash in crumb filled pockets; emergency funds she has signed up for because the zero-hour contracts were the first to die of the virus. After her break, Billie dusts biscuit crumbs from her hands before the lights turn red and the pedestal begins to jerkily turn. She lifts a tanned leg and flicks back her hair. The old rollercoaster clank and clang of the rising shutters, the ring of dirty surgeon faces eager to look inside.