Carol’s Column

Holed up in my underground shelter

As you read this I am holed up in my underground shelter in the garden. I didn't want to panic, and, in fact hadn't until December 3 in the final year of the last millennium when somebody attempted to deliver a truck load of dry foodstuffs to the front door.

Mass hysteria has never appealed to me. During the first democratic election in 1994, for example, when so many people stockpiled food supplies as a precaution against expected political turbulence, I laughed. How absurd I thought.

Anyway, to get back to the front door.

"No, I am not Mrs Trottelthwaite. The Trottelthwaites live next door," I told the delivery man. Because of the heat at the finish of the century, he was in need of sustenance so I offered him a 20th century Coca Cola which he accepted readily. His name was Boris.

It was then he told me how he'd spent the past year delivering foodstuffs to all those preparing for Y2K and the impending disasters that might befall the world. He also mentioned he moonlighted as a clairvoyant.

"You're joking?" I said with asperity. Quite honestly I reckoned the frenzy about potential disaster was just media hype.

"No," said Boris. "Psychically speaking, chaos is nigh ."

I discussed the matter with my good friend Betty who assured me she certainly was not taking the end of the century terribly seriously. Just building an underground shelter and stocking up with provisions for a few months.

That made me think.

My spouse, as is usual, dismissed my concerns and watched the cricket.

I hired a contractor of troglodyte dwellings who within three days had constructed a two-roomed apartment complete with filtered air extractor and chimney.

One room would be the living quarters, the other smaller chamber would contain food and toilet rolls. On the evening of December 31 1999, I extended an invitation to my spouse to join me in the underground chamber. He declined.

So, the bottom line is that here I am, holed up, happy, alone and contemplating the meaning of life in the year 2000.

I have a simple chemical toilet and a built-in periscope installed by a Cape Town submarine manufacturing company under appointment to South Africa's naval fleet which is situated right beside the air filter vent. The periscope not the South African navy.

Until yesterday, it seemed quite peaceful outside and I observed my husband sunbathing next to the pool. As I watched, he jumped up and bent over the filter, then donned his scuba diving apparatus and back-flipped into the pool.

He's mad, I thought to myself, until I realised he was probably doing an in-depth check to see why the pool was losing water. In the excitement of the pre-millennium preparations, I'd forgotten to tell him that for my water needs, I'd be siphoning off liquid from the pool.

The hand-crank generator works effectively and gives me more than enough light to read. In fact, it is so cosy down here that I may never emerge. There's a lot to be said for being totally self-sufficient with no outer bothersome distractions.

I thought this until five minutes ago when I noticed the air down here becoming positively pungent. I lifted the periscope in time to observe the rear end of Cleopatra the Alsatian from which a large mound was expunged and deposited on top of the air filter unit.

This unforeseen and momentous event has taught me that some things never change. Despite all my apprehensions, I shall shortly have to emerge into the real world come what may.

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