BREXIT Day 2.0 is upon us, which means at 11pm, nothing whatsoever will happen because politicians — unless they tear up the form book in spectacular fashion — will once again have done what they do best, and kicked the can down the road.

I make no apology for failing to predict what will occur beyond the end of the week, as to do so I’d need to get inside the heads of Mr Jacob Rees Mogg and the Democratic Unionist Party, to name but 11. This would be a sacrifice too far.

One thing is, however, lamentably certain — I’ve left my panic buying dangerously late.

Rather like the Biblical virgins, foolish enough to turn up at a wedding feast without enough paraffin for their lamps (Matt 25: 1-13) I’m in peril of being left out in the cold.

No petrol-filled jerry cans stored recklessly in the garage. Not even so much as a damn great rubber torch the size of a copper’s baton, just a couple of those tiny windy-up things that come with the car’s breakdown kit.

So to the chest freezer, which mercifully boasts a power-off safe time of 43 hours, to check on its stock of the necessities of life, such as they are.

First and foremost there is the pea mountain. Ours in not really a pea household, but we’ve accumulated around seven small bags of them thanks to the lack of imagination shown by the local supermarket in constructing its absurdly cheap loss-leader frozen meal deals.

For similar reasons, and in similar quantities, we may soon be reduced to feasting non-stop on oven chips shaped like letters of the alphabet. With the internet down under the anti-riot legislation, we shall while away the hours making rude words out of them.

Beyond that, the dogs will have to share their sausages with us. We’ve heard a lot of twaddle about an impending Brexit-fuelled shortage of dog food.

All dogs love sausages, and the more saturated fat the better. The rest of us must adapt to survive. Grill them slowly for ages.

Some of the detritus remaining from a recent house move is going to have to be re-tasked for barter, as befits an economy reduced to a primitive level.

Something tasty from the Island’s gardens to supplement the peas and suggestive chips will be required in return.

First there is an impressive stockpile of metal gripper strips for garden decking (fixing screws included), acquired at a time when DIY, rather than basic survival, seemed the obvious way of spending time this spring. Rub two together for long enough and you could probably start a fire.

There is also a large stash of ready-assembled cardboard boxes, assorted sizes, one careful owner, which could, with a little creativity, lend themselves to all manner of uses: playroom props, modular wall units (light duty), rabbit hutches — the list is endless.

There is though, of course, another way to look at all this. I’m reminded of a bank’s TV advert a few years back, featuring a talking donkey, and themed on how the simplest things sometimes turned out to be a lot more complicated than you’d been promised.

Poor old donkey couldn’t invest his carrot however hard he tried. He got ever so depressed, ate the carrot and tried to forget the whole horrid business. The moral of the story, apparently, was that no one likes being led up the garden path.

Neither do I. I have no carrots, but there are, as I mentioned, the dog sausages, chips and peas.

Bon appetit.

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