The only way I know of fighting writer’s block is writing. Don’t worry. I only really ramble when I have something to say and I’m looking for the right words to say it. But on a Monday morning that feels like a fourth Sunday in a row a blank white digital sheet on my computer screen feels like the invisible height of a spiral staircase to a bell tower of forgotten childhood.

It is now 5 days that I have been inside under mandatory quarantine. In this time, I have well and truly caught up with my sleep. I have binged on Downton Abbey. I have read all there is to know on Vladimir Lenin from a recent biography. I have cooked two hot meals a day for 5 days as enthusiasm for eating them dwindled. That’s not a bad thing.

This reverie is interrupted by news bulletins about the coronavirus and the implicit hints that we haven’t seen the worse of this and that it’s not likely to pass in a matter of days. Or weeks.

The kids are now getting their school work sent to them over email. My daughter demands handholding as she does her work asking for feedback every second word she writes. My wife is the only one doing any actual work on her laptop.

As I try to peep at the outside world through the sources of information that I am left with all I see is an interminable wall of virus-speak. I see conflicting advice on how to meet shared objectives. I see faceless scientists and grotesque political bullishness. And I see people chewing on bad news warning us to pace ourselves because this hurricane will not pass over Kansas within the time it takes for the battery to run out on our torch.

Monday morning comes with guilt about all the things I’m missing while doing nothing. I will not be meeting my friends to mark another month since the campaign for justice for Daphne Caruana Galizia has started. I will not be paying my respect to her parents and trying to keep up with the hidden strength that keeps them on their feet no matter what. I will not be renewing my commitment to stick my ground.

I will not be in New York either as I had every intention to be as the verdict is handed down in the trial of Ali Sadr Hashemi Nejad, one of Joseph Muscat’s and Keith Schembri’s buddies who might be changing his tune after today.

There will be no court sessions digging deeper into Daphne’s murder, how it happened, why, how it was allowed to happen and how it was covered up.

The inquiries into the hospitals, the Panama Papers, the use of political connections to sell passports to crooks: there will be no news from any of those for some time.

My plan to start a court case to insist I’m allowed to check in on conditions in prison and in detention centres feels out of place right now when not being allowed to visit the prison becomes about keeping the inmates free of anything invisible I might be carrying.

It would be easy to second guess political leaders even at these times.

Joseph Muscat travelled with his family Friday flying over Europe into the UK as if it was some sanctuary from coronavirus. The man’s arrogance is truly pathological. And his financial resources apparently infinite. It seems he’s been to London four times since Christmas. Add to that trips to the UAE, Switzerland, Turkey and the US (he arrived from Miami last Thursday) and you would wonder what he’s up to. If you weren’t busy wondering how long and how far this pestilence will get us.

Some aren’t and have been wondering whether a flight ban from the UK has been halted while we wait for Joseph Muscat to saunter in in his own sweet time.

Robert Abela invites scepticism and doubts but that may not be entirely his fault. For this thing to happen to a prime minister who is brand new to his job is an incredible challenge. It could be worse. Our prime minister right now could have been Joseph Muscat and then we’d be forgiven to suspect our national leader would be setting up some black-market hoarding to profit from the crisis. At the risk of sounding like Doctor Pangloss, things could always be worse.

I’m not going to dish out advice when I’m having conversations with myself about my own sanity. This isn’t advice as much as it is a self-help manual for myself. Call your parents every day. Read. Catch up on movies you missed. Cook. Read. Don’t go to sleep too early. Teach something new to your daughter. Make tea for your wife. Remember this will be over. If you’re the type, pray. If not try to figure out the meaning of life, the universe and everything. That’s bound to fill your time. Repeat.