I am aware that I am about to embark on a minor complaint by a spoiled brat living in a wealthy part of the developed world at the beginning of the third millennium. Maybe the exposure of that is enough reason for the column.
I need a wee break. Oh, I am not talking European holidays. I think that is the maddest of ideas after two lockdown waves that have stretched our nation's mental health; to go where there is a huge risk of bringing the virus and even new strains of it back. The £5,000 fine is not enough.
No, I just want to drive 60 miles to my own house in Ballycastle. That is our house, that we own.
Where I am living is a house that comes with work and, perhaps as a result, has me psychologically unable to really take a break.
I become an entirely different human being in my own house. I can switch work off. I can relax.
I also have favourite walks across my favourite beach in the world. The familiar scene every day that is never the very same familiar scene every day.
The light from the sky throws daily different hues across the most glorious creation. The waves are never the same. The sand and pebble patterns on the beach are every day new and often full of surprise.
There is a rock, just out from the shore. A symbol. We walk in the shadow of Fair Head and feel its strength.
Or up the forest, on the side of Knocklayde. A challenging climb that is rewarded with fantastic scenic panoramas. And in the in-between, wild fauna, butterflies and on the odd, even more sacred occasion, a deer right there on the path.
My favourite sofa, head back, legs up. No TV. Fragile wi-fi. A novel, a rock biography, never theology. Albums I have heard, but never had time to really download into my soul. Family all around. Friends in the corner of the cul-de-sac. Sabbath. Rest.
We have not been there for so long. Coronavirus rules have banned us. We feel the strain. The virus has made everybody weary. A week in Ballycastle would hit that tired spot like an inner spa and massage.
We are coming to terms with not going. Oh, maybe we could sneak. We have a valid excuse to check on the house. It is actually our house. Our only house. Maybe we'd get away with it.
Pandemics, though, are not about rules. They are about viruses, terrible illness and death and the impact on so many people as the effects ripple out.
You can get away with breaking the rule, but the risk of the real consequences are unimaginable.
I have gone on about it like a mantra for an entire year, but these days demand Jesus's call to love our neighbours like no time in my near-60 years on the planet.
I need to sacrifice my selfish, spoiled brat, erroneous thoughts of entitlement to fight the reach of Covid 19 and keep my community as safe as I can.
It would be anti-Easter to break the rules. How I, as a follower of Jesus, could lean into his passion and cross and not hear him say, "Follow me."
To hear him whisper those words as he reveals the ultimate sacrifice for the good of others and the common good while flouting wise caution to keep my neighbours alive and well.
Well, I am not sure I could dare to call myself any kind of follower of the Jesus of Easter.
So, we wait, wearily. When Arlene and Michelle say, "You can go", go we will. Until then, patience, discipline, sacrifice.
Glory be, but people are sacrificing much more than this spoiled brat!
Rev Steve Stockman is minister of Fitzroy Presbyterian Church, Belfast
Apt Bible readings
Some Scripture suggestions for the week ahead:
Monday: John 1:29-31
Tuesday: John 3:16-17
Wednesday: Matthew 26:26-28
Thursday: John 19:28-30
Friday: John 20:13-17