It's the end of the world, as we know it

"Um, you know that, like, the world's going to end tomorrow," says Hawkwind Sid, summing up the conversation doing the rounds in the Village Pub. "It's the Mayans, ma-a-an. Their calender, like, um, runs out  tomorrow, yeah..?"

I wonder why the Mayans couldn't just go to WH Smiths in King's Lynn, or even one of the town's growing plethora of pound shops and buy another calender. World saved for another year, with nice pictures of puppies.

"Always the optimist, eh," says Malcolm. "What if it's true. Bet you'd wish you'd listened to all the hippies then, huh..?"

It is raining. The Half Awake Barman has a cold. Other than this, I have seen no credible portent of impending disaster during my short walk to the Village Pub. There have been no reports of looting or civil disorder in the village. There has even been a delivery of extra-strong Christmas ale.

I decide to go fishing tomorrow, on a whim.  I intended to go Christmas shopping - but imagine how cheesed off you'd be if you spent all that money on presents and the apocalypse came. Talk about a waste.