Column: The dark days of Y2K

By BOB IRVINE

It was a case of life imitating a Second World War poster the day my daughter climbed up on my knee and said, "What did you do in the Y2K crisis, Daddy?"

The agony of those dark days came flooding back, almost matching the agony in my old knees.

She is a fully grown woman now and I have said to her time and again that if she wishes to bridge the generation gap, do so from a supine and respectful posture at my feet.

But there you go.

Yes, the bug war. I did my bit.

"Cockroach" pamphlets had been arriving in the mail long beforehand, with the cocky bug boasting that he could live for days with his head chopped off.

Hah, I thought. Some of us humans can live that way for years. They're called talkback hosts.

We would survive.

My own preparations were spartan but thorough: one packet of porridge, a can of pasta sauce, two bottles of mineral water - the makings of a tasty pot-pourri.

The torch worked with a pounding or two, and a box of matches provided a backup.

Cooking the porridge presented a challenge until I thought of lighting the Y2K pamphlets and putting them underneath the pot.

Junk mail is a bountiful supply of fuel, and a nuclear strike would not stop it getting through.

An Alliance fundraising cookbook furnished a recipe for raw barnacle stew, and I rushed out and bought a set of Swedish champagne flutes. If there was any drinking of urine, it would be done with style.

I even took the precaution of withdrawing my life savings from the bank - although half of them were used to buy the porridge.

On New Year's Eve in Aotea Square, then, I was confident, devil-may-care, ready to party.

We all were. Everyone was too merry at midnight to notice the electricity failure. In downtown Auckland, it was deja non vu.

I remember we all danced in a conga line to use the toilets at the America's Cup village.

No power, no water. The good news was the planes stayed up in the air. And they were well patronised - people booked flights just to use the toilets.

The party was over by Day Two, though. Ugly rioting broke out in the chattering suburbs. Mobs stopped and ransacked pizza delivery vans.

My stores were holding out, although porridge three times a day was sending me out of my mind.

(Still is. I really must make another effort to broaden my culinary horizons.)

The last of my water had gone in filling bottles for my front lawn to deter the neighbours digging holes and doing their business.

On Day Three, Catholic supply stores were looted for candles. University students went on "reservoir crawls" and every boat hull in Auckland had been scraped clean of tasty shellfish.

Paul Holmes was touring on a bicycle, shouting through a megaphone to reassure the masses that he was still alive.

When the services came back on I was in the midst of wolfing down sweet-and-sour hedgehog on a bed of porridge.

You can buy that stuff frozen in the supermarket now, but I fancy it tasted better then.

"You sentimental old fool," said the daughter.

"Well, you may call me a sentimental old fool," I said, "But despite the hardship, despite the deprivation ... Hey, where are you going?"