I can't be the only one confused about what we can and can not do in these strange and uncertain times. Every time I think about doing something or meeting someone, I have to go on the internet and double check if it falls within the rules.
For instance, this week I've been trying to find out if we're allowed to have a plumber come to our house.
All five of the family in here, all confined to the house for weeks on end, has taken its toll on the fixtures and fittings.
I have one toilet that refuses to fill, a cold water tap that will not turn and a dishwasher that would be more accurately described as a dish sauna, seemingly baking food residue on to the plates stacked within rather than taking it off.
I can't do much about the toilet and tap, but in terms of the plates I decided that we'd go old-school and force the teenagers into earning their keep by digging out the washing gloves, some soapy liquid, a sponge and making them expel a bit of elbow grease.
Not only, I thought, would this keep them busy at a time when their options seem to be limited to watching YouTube videos, but it would also save me the financial outlay of trying to get the dishwasher fixed.
When I told them my plans, I was met with the inevitable eye rolls and sighs, but I forged on, telling them that they might end up enjoying it and then we could get rid of the dishwasher altogether.
I knew this to be a lie as I said it but, like an experienced politician delivering bad news, I was doubling down on my decision. It was a decision that I have quickly come to regret.
The clean-up operation after the first few meals went well. The novelty of washing up may have helped, but I think it was more to do with the fact that I had promised to reflect the increase in working hours in their monthly pocket money amount.
I have always tried to make my eldest two appreciate the value of hard work by linking their pocket money to chores done in the house.
They earn a couple of quid for keeping their rooms tidy, a bit more for hoovering and dusting and they can always go for a bonus by clearing out my car.
To be fair, the children should earn quite a lot more for cleaning out my car than they do because it always looks - and occasionally smells - like a cross between a jumble sale and a science lab. It's so bad that I wouldn't be surprised to find that new life forms have taken root and formed under the front seats.
But it wasn't long before I was threatening to dock their earnings as a quick inspection showed that a good few pots and pans were getting a quick rub and not the necessary deep clean.
When I explained to my son that I needed the saucepans to be cleaner, illustrating my point by showing him several lumps of penne pasta still welded on to the bottom of the pot, he responded with: "What's the problem? Sure, you said you were going to make pasta again tonight anyway."
But that small hiccup was nothing compared to the mayhem my new regime brought about this morning.
After drying the plates, the kids put them away in the cupboards, naturally at eye level or, I should say, at what is eye level for them.
I have always carefully arranged my crockery so that the most used items are at the bottom because, in a family of giants, I am the only vertically challenged soul in the house and can only access the bottom two shelves without hauling out my trusty stepladder.
With the dishes having been put on the third shelf and no one around to help me, I climbed up my stepladder, lifted down the huge pile of plates and bowls that I needed... and promptly dropped the lot on the kitchen tiles.
I remained on the top step of the ladder for a good five minutes, viewing the total devastation, before making another proclamation.
Until I can find a plumber and get the dishwasher fixed, I'm switching to paper plates…