Those people in Manchester having illegal raves are lowlifes, and the full force of the law … no, I can’t even be bothered to finish this sentence. It’s not that I think mass gatherings are great, exactly; it’s just that I have seen them so often in past weeks, on protests and in parks.

Are these ravers worse than those prepared to stand in line in masks to go in a shop on a hot day, whether it’s Primark or Sports Direct? Is this sensible? (Of course there are superior people who queue at Apple stores and talk about John Lewis as if it’s the UN.) Are you now, or have you ever been, at a barbecue? Dodgy, I reckon.

Anyway, if you are spending any time surrounded by other people and are not a key worker, you are: a) a vile super-spreader/murderer; b) somebody who has sensibly calculated your risk of viral exposure because you spend your waking life staring at graphs and looking at the R rates; c) somebody who doesn’t watch the news any more, as it’s all just too depressing; d) a teenager, with a Dominic Cummings-like sense of omnipotence; e) quite confused.

I am going with e). “They know not what they do,” is the kindest explanation for the mass breaking of lockdown rules. Confusion also strikes me as not just the modus operandi of this cluster of buffoons that is the government but the actual strategy.

Let’s keep changing the rules by announcing that they are being “reviewed”, tell people we are wobbling on the 2-metre thing, babble about bubbles, produce a situation in which England has different rules from the rest of the UK, ignore the bits of science that we don’t like (and indeed the World Health Organization, which is warning that easing lockdown without a track-and-trace system in place is dangerous), mislay the “world-beating” app that was being trialled on the Isle of Wight, tell people masks don’t work then say they must be worn – and let estate agents into our homes. But not two grandkids who belong to different children. Oh yes, and children generally should go back to school. Sort of. Some of them. The upshot of all this is that if you get ill, it’s because you took a risk, and it’s your own stupid fault.

My friend was going to come round the other day, but, because she’s just been through chemo, we couldn’t work out the logistics. Previously, she sat at my front gate for what I call “bin drinks”, as I don’t have a front garden. Sitting by the bins in the rain has been quite the social highlight of lockdown. But could she come through my house to my garden, given that my daughter had been on the Black Lives Matter protests? Suffice to say, I won’t be getting the Nobel prize for risk assessment. Then I spent ages Googling very cheap flights to places that won’t let me in, after which I looked at the price of Hazmat suits for other, much more expensive, flights. Does Primark do them?

Surely we can all see which way this is going. Boris Johnson in Westfield Stratford? What new fresh hell is this? Is he cruising for the 1-metre distance that businesses are demanding? How this works we just don’t know. Some people will be happy enough to sit screened off in a pub; maybe we can pretend it’s a snug, except it isn’t really, is it? I can’t think of a restaurant I like that isn’t dark, cosy and vaguely illicit. The food matters less than the vibe. If I can’t eavesdrop on the couple having a terrible first date on the table next to me, what is the point?

And if the economy is in the terrible shape that it appears to be, then who is going to be doing all this shopping and eating out? Optimistically, I thought that lockdown would make us redefine what matters and what doesn’t. Non-essential shops are just about every shop. Trailing round the shops as leisure has always mystified me. It would be good to claim this is to do with saving the planet, but it isn’t. It’s just unutterably boring. I don’t like supermarkets or queues. As soon as it was possible to buy everything online, I did. And even there, I shop as little as possible.

You know those blokes who sit outside changing rooms while their partners try on clothes, and who manage only an uninterested grunt when asked for their opinions? I am one of them. Why would I care? The advent of the mall rat and the food court from the US killed off the high street and homogenised it. I have been in shopping centres in Istanbul indistinguishable from any British high street or airport departure lounge.

Shopping is not any kind of answer to what has happened in the past few months. It may well be sold to women as meaningful, but women have been working and home schooling, and are taking massive cuts in income. The struggle has been to care for young and old people, and maintain the social glue. Sure, buy yourself a new outfit – but rampant consumerism? Is this the limit of our imagination? Not mine.

Now I can have a legal rave at my place if I choose between the grandchildren. We can line dance, I suppose. I’ve got some CBD oil and some old malaria tablets, and we don’t have to go “Covid casual”, but nor do we need new clothes. Fashion is now whatever we decide it is, for that is surely one of the industries that has to take a long hard look at itself.

The new normal won’t be the old normal and herein lies our freedom. Mourn the pleasures and recreate them screened off if you like. Or understand that pleasures mutate too and it’s time to find some new ones.

• Suzanne Moore is a Guardian columnist