So this is what agoraphobia feels like ... or is this more like being a pigeon thrown among the cats?

My column title “between these four walls” has been self-breached. It was Tuesday and my Beatson consultant had phoned to explain the special arrangements that had been put in place to reduce the risk of exposure to Covid-19 for the highest-risk patients – those with cancer undergoing chemo.

It’s impressive stuff and more of that later ...

It was Tuesday – the end of three weeks’ total seclusion from the outside world or any visitor to my domestic sanctuary.

The doorstep drops of Tesco bags from our children continue and chatty conversations with the grandkids through closed windows go on (thank God!).

The delivery guys from Amazon also get the need for social distancing and read the note on my door saying “Covid-19 isolation, please leave on doorstep”, and I give them a nod and a thumbs up when they do so.

There’s a feeling of genuine concern, care and politeness that makes me feel good inside – good towards the stranger who delivered my little box of printer ink. He seems to care and I seem to care about the fact that he cares – it is genuinely a very nice thing to feel.

But it appeared from news bulletins earlier in the week that many people really just weren’t “getting it” ... strangely beginning to imagine it was time to ease out of lockdown despite the news from around the world of infections and death rates.

So, I am heartened by the continued military precision my wife Laura puts in to maintaining my protection from infection. Disinfectant wipes will be taken. I will touch no handles.

No visitors are allowed to accompany me to treatment but Laura will wait in the car in the hospital car park for the four hours it takes to ensure she’s nearby and there for me when I come out.

One of our kids has scoured the city and found a teenager making plastic visors with a 3D printer. Another has sourced surgical gloves and one more has got their hands on a fairly decent nose and mouth mask.

Dr Brian Clark, Beatson Cancer Centre oncologist, has already explained that the normal area for chemo – part of ward 3 – is now being used for coronavirus patients so a paediatric day surgery unit on the ground floor with automatic doors at the rear of the hospital has been utilised.

He advises me to park at the back door and at the specific appointment time to phone the number he gives me – I’ll be called in when everything is ready then taken straight through for treatment to avoid waiting in any shared area or touching any handles.

I am massively impressed at this level of attention and care – from a top consultant and involving so many of the NHS team at Crosshouse Hospital near Kilmarnock. I shouldn’t be though – everyone from Dr Cathie Anderson and Dr Hans Hartung to nutritionist Sophie Wasmer to my attentive GP Dr Sarah Reid and “my” wonderful MacMillan Cancer specialist nurse Molly Templeton have been amazing at keeping me safe and informed.

I may, for every Thursday I have left to live, clap enthusiastically to recognise the debt I – and so many millions of other Brits – owe to the wonderful men and women of the NHS.

Inside the chemo treatment area the eight patients are well separated and quietly sitting. The staff are busy and checking every detail with speed and efficiency. There’s no nonsense and banter today.

There’s still time to care and to be efficient but this is the business end of the NHS.

As my mind wanders during the steady drip, drip, drip into the back of my hand I remember the laughter I shared with some fellow lung patients in ward 3 just before Christmas. The banter among men fearful for their lives can be incredibly warm and sensitive yet hugely entertaining at the same time.

The memory of one such episode brings a smile to my face: the domestic assistant cheerfully wanders into the ward and asks the old chap opposite if he wants a cuppa. He’s got big earphones on and they’re plugged into the TV/radio swivel arm above his bed with the volume clearly up high.

“Eh – whit?” he says.

Our tea trolley operative leans helpfully close and speaks with exaggerated mouth movements to assist any ability to lip-read and this time expands the offering – “would you like a cup of tea or a coffee or maybe even a wee hot chocolate?” (A challenge now even for an accomplished lip-reader and well beyond this chap, I observe!).

He asks for the radio to be turned down. She doesn’t know how it works. Another patient chips in: “Maybe take his earphones off and ask him?”

Promptly this is done whereby the question is asked and answered: “Naw, thanks hen.”