Sunday, July 22, 2007

The devolution will not be televised

Or, was that Armageddon, or just my pussy farting?

Laugh all you like, but while you're off indulging your trivial pleasures, it's good to know that somebody is out thinking about the important things.
The Lord Mayor, Clover Moore, is urging Sydneysiders to prepare a "Go Bag" - packed with maps, running shoes, energy bars and even sticky-tape - so they can be ready for any disaster that may strike the city.
(Via Caz)

For me, the only surprising thing in all this is the baseball cap. One would think in the event of the world ending, or an imminent disaster, you'd want to be wearing something a bit classier than that. Personally, I favour fedoras.

Still, it's a good idea, and for the edification of Snarkeology's wide readership, I have undertaken the task of presenting, extempore, a likely scenario in which the 'Go' bag could be used. If anything, I think that this scenario is too pessimistic, but see for yourselves...


Thank God I am finally able to come out from underneath the table! The bombing has stopped, and I have had time to survey my surroundings. I appear to be trapped in the fallen rubble of the Sydney Opera House: (and what a splendid performance of Tosca I just saw. Who thought that it would have been the last in the world, eh?)
I have just completed a survey of the room with my torch. There is a corpse, just opposite me, on the lounge, and a cat lurking on the other side of the room.

Hopefully someone will come to get me out shortly.

Thankfully, as an active citizen, member of the Australian Greens, and supporter of Clover Moore's bid for the Sydney Mayoralty, I have with me my trusty GO Bag! Pith helmet in the case of nuclear fallout, sunblock (well - may not need that down here), a set of keys (mysteriously, I have no idea what they open), four cans of baked beans, and this notepad.

The cat is eyeing the corpse on the couch already. I am going to have to do something about that.

Oh, GOD, when is someone coming to get me out?

Well, that was satisfying. Incidentally, now I know why cannibals use pots instead of frying pans. Or shishkebabs. I had similar problems frying kangaroo meat once - you see, once I had chopped it up and...

But I'll spare you the details. Anyway, let me just say that it was certainly thoughtful of Clover to suggest we take a set of keys with us - in the absence of knives, they do a surprisingly good job!

In other matters, what day is it? The minutes and hours and days creep by in a desultory fashion, and I have lost all sense of time. Sometimes it seems like merely hours since the bombs started falling; sometimes, years.

The cat is looking at me strangely, now the corpse has gone.
I had better turn this torch off. I do not know how long the batteries will last...

Is it Monday yet? What time would it be if anyone still had the time? Is anyone who still has the time still alive to give it to me? Who was I used to be? (Only kidding...)

The cat is still staring at me. It has a distinctly obsessed glint in its eyes: I am not altogether sure that we make the best of flatmates. (It reminds me, incidentally, of the time I used to live in a divided warehouse in Newtown. Another flatmate used to look at me in exactly that way - I thought he was gay, but considering the current circumstances, I may have entirely misinterpreted his intentions for me.)
Life here has completely gone to seed. I am down to a diet of two baked beans a day: I am not sure how long it will be before someone comes to get me - or even if they do. If they are. If they were...

At last! Monday again! Every time it is Monday, I give myself a treat - three baked beans instead of my usual two. O, what a glorious feast I have then! I have begun to give the cat a bean on every second day in the week. (As I'm not sure where every first day in the week has got to, this works out quite economically).
But there are fights. Yesterday, the cat spilled the can of beans and managed to eat quite a number of them before I uprighted it. It becomes harder and harder every day to perform the simplest tasks.

Only one and a half cans of beans between myself and oblivion. I must pace myself...

I have lost all sensation in my legs. I find it harder and harder to fend the cat away from the baked bean can: every day is an exhausting struggle. I usually find that waving my hand in its face as fast as possible helps.
We are down to seven beans - one for each Monday of the week. I shudder to think of what will happen when...

The cat has begun eating my leg. It kind of tickles.

I can only move my hands and so cannot throw it off. However, thanks to the thoughtfulness of Clover Moore, I am able to record the event for posterity on this notepad. I am sure glad I voted for her?

How long does it take for one under-sized tabby to eat a person's hip?

In other news, ouch.



nick cetacean said...

oooooh, you *are* awful

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