Is it just me, or does the world seem a slightly more unstable place at the moment than it did, say, last year, or last decade come to that? It’s a valid doubt on my part: the booze sometimes gets me feeling a tad paranoid; it is entirely possible that it is only me experiencing this heightened sense of global anxiety.
Whether I am alone in my fears, or not, I am not someone to rest on my laurels. I am not going to wait passively submissive while Kim Jong-un builds up his nuclear arsenal; not going to stand by and do nothing while Donald Trump tweets machismo soundbites; not going to hold my breath while the UN, the Security Council and President Xi play three wise monkeys: I am going to take positive action.
But what form will this action take?
Well, I have never been a campaigning individual; never had sufficient belief in either politics, diplomacy, charity or common sense as a force to change the world. So my action is going to be of an entirely selfish nature.
I am going to build a personal nuclear fallout shelter. And where to build it? There is only one choice. In the place where I am surrounded by all the things most precious to me. In my local pub.
So, where to start?
I have a handbook, of sorts: Raymond Briggs’ When the Wind Blows––a classic graphic novel from 1982, published when the spectre of Cold War nuclear Armageddon posed a similar threat to world––and mental––stability.
Given the choice, I would ideally build my shelter underground, but I find myself denied access to my local’s cellar: here the preservation of beer has precedence––perhaps entirely rightly––over the preservation of humanity. However, I have a first-floor room placed at my disposal.
This is my canvas. And now to work.
© Beery Sue
Beery Sue was never a girl guide, but she likes to be prepared.