Home » Apologies for everything » Sic transit gloria mundi

Sic transit gloria mundi

Only five days to go now until the End of Days, prophesied by the Maya, which falls conveniently on a Friday this 44,000-year cycle.

It’s a toss-up whether to gas the car up now, in case there are queues at the pumps, or wait until everyone is lying around in dead positions and you can just help yourself. Am I going to need a car, where we’re going? Will anyone be shooting looters, on a weekend? Decisions, decisions. Four-wheel drive might have come in handy; still, you don’t think of these things until that rainy day arives.

Clearing the decks is proving really difficult, no-one wants to go into the next world with all this much stuff, but I’m stuck with it. What off Earth am I going to do with two sofas? At the same time, one wants to ensure one has all the necessities for survival, at least in the short-run. I’ve stocked up on Pot Noodle and canned soup, bought spare batteries for the flashlight in case it gets dark from any cloudes that shalle cover ye face of ye sunne, drawing-pins for pinning-up photos of missing family, acts of sabotage, that sort of thing.

Money will be pretty useless after the world ends, I expect. Brute force will probably be the order of the day, until the actual Second Coming and the establishment of God’s reign on whatever is left of Earth. That could take a few days to set-up, quite a complex operation establishing a reign, especially dealing with the French. You’ll need a semi-automatic assault rifle and about 1000 rounds of ammo, I reckon. That could weigh quite a lot, so don’t hock the wheelbarrow just yet. Some bottled water, and a spare pair of dry socks. Gold coins, and trinkets for bartering. Grandad’s watch could be useful, still keeps good time. What’s a minute here or there, gained or lost in Eternity? Oh, and don’t forget the Nivea creme, in case the Judgement… well, in case it doesn’t go your way.

But don’t tangle with any scavenging remnants of the army, they can be nasty, or your unfriendly neighbourhood warlord (Hey, didn’t you use to be Michael from the fish counter at Morrison’s? Okay, okay, I’ll bow down and swear… whatever! Who knew you were Polish?). Larger ex-inmates of the Borth Animalarium roaming wild could be a problem after they’ve eaten all the cats; while, if you’re a woman, I’d shoot myself now.

You don’t know whether to finish tiling the bathroom; what not to get the children for Christmas, which isn’t coming this year; how to explain. Should you cancel the boiler man? It might get cold with no sunne. Should you leave a forwarding address? Where? Is one expected to wear a tie? The End of Days gives you a lot to think about, to plan for. Shoes or Wellies? Maybe a raincoat, it might Fludde?

Then, what if nothing happens after all? When you’ve gone to all this trouble? It wouldn’t be the first false alarm, you should have been here in the year 999! That’s how they chose the emergency service number. You’ve sold the house, the car, you’re basically homeless, carless. You’ve given away all your money and goods to the Church, you’ve confessed and said a few Hail Mary’s, which She listened to intently and sweetly forgave you; all you have in the world now is two sofas, a functioning flashlight, a 24-pack of Pot Noodle but no kettle, and then NOTHING HAPPENS?

It’d be like the end of everything, only worse!

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