THE experts say we shouldn't get too cocky.
They say it's early days and maybe don't quite ditch the masks and the social distancing.
They say it's good to celebrate the falling numbers - enjoy the sunshine but keep the umbrella nearby.
Tread softly and carry an N95 face mask.
A friend from work has a laugh with me.
"Remember when all this began two years ago and you wrote that article about how you took radio-iodine for your thyroid and had to isolate for three whole weeks," he joked.
We both laughed - mine was a hollow one - three whole weeks, imagine. What a lightweight I was.
It seemed a big deal at the time.
I insisted in driving myself to the hospital - I didn't want to put anyone else in danger with that glow in the dark stuff. My doctor was a big, bluff man.
"You're on your own?" he said.
When he brought in a long glass phial containing the radioactive dose in a capsule - no touching it - he sat down.
"I'll stay and hold your hand while you take it," he said.
I always remember his kindness.
That was 20 years ago.
Having to stay alone in your bedroom, not sharing a toilet, having your meals delivered by tray with cutlery for your personal use only seemed like a big deal.
We operated an upstairs, downstairs scheme.
My husband lived downstairs, I lived upstairs and our boy was exported to my sister.
Communication was a gulder up and down the stairs. Those were the days before Netflix and iPlayer. It was boring. Later I continued the exile with my mother. They say you should never go back.
I lay in the bedroom of my girlhood, staring at the faded square on the wall where David Essex used to twinkle his baby blues and right next to it, the space for the poster of Gary Glitter and his gang. Oh dear.
Could there be an old discarded Bunty comic or even, dare I say it, a Jackie under the bed? Alas no. Not even the whiff of the Cathy and Claire problem page.
My mother and I tried to establish an entente cordiale, but after 20 years of independent living, it proved tricky.
She didn't like me clearing up her kitchen and straightening up her papers; she liked the radio blaring on a Sunday morning when she treated herself to a second helping of Mass and she was forever wanting "a large cup of tea, a buttered digestive, a slice of Mars bar and two fat raisins".
Her way; my way... this was no marriage made in heaven.
There were times when it seemed politic to jump into my car and totally self isolate myself all the way to Ballycastle, just for a change of scenery.
Looking back, my poor mother did her best.
But when it came to isolation, I was a weakling. Seriously I knew nothing.
Now, we've earned the T-shirts.
I haven't got on a bus in two years; never mind a plane.
Omicron put paid even to cautious coffees in cafes... thermal flask in the park only.
I'm anxious about what normal life will be, but so want to kiss goodbye to all this.
The early days of wearing crop circles on the lawn while getting daily exercise strictly inside the front gate are distant memories.
The newness of it made it bearable. We laughed about it. Friends left pizzas and shopping and bottles of wine on the doorstep.
Now, they say the old familiar traffic jams are back. They say that things have a more normal look.
Yes, I'll miss rolling out of bed and straight into work in my pyjamas or walking five paces and falling back into bed after a late shift.
I'm getting separation anxiety from the stuffed tiger toy and the set of scales and the clothes drying rack in my desk study. We are social creatures - I miss my work pals, the office banter; the coffee break; my book lover mates; a laugh.
Still, after all this time, having lived at such close quarters and with very little other social contact; we are still married and our son seems fond of us.
Spring is in the air and the first daffodils smile up from the doorstep.
It's time to go out there and embrace the traffic jams.
We're stepping softly into the sunshine... but holding on to the umbrella.
