Visiting friends in a neighbouring village the other night, we worked ourselves into a right old lather discussing what’s going on in the world.

The what-ifs were belting out, one after the other. Rapid fire.

What if there’s a recession like the one in the 1930s?

What if there’s hyperinflation like in Hungary in the 1940s or Serbia in the 1990s?

What if there’s a massive cyberattack on the power grid and we’re cut off from the world?

We moved from Israel and Gaza to the USA, Myanmar, Kashmir, Hungary, and the UK, each of us throwing in our penny ha’penny’s worth of bubbles into the soapy bath of bleakness.

Our imaginations were running riot.

And yes, there’s a fine line between such imaginings and conspiracy theories. And no, we didn’t cross it.

It’s hard not to worry, though.

Worrying over things I cannot change or have the slightest effect on is pointless. It’s a chronic misuse of imagination.

I know this. I know this intellectually.

I believe this. I believe this rationally.

I understand this. I understand this clinically.

But that still doesn’t stop me worrying.

Oh, it helps stop me worrying as much as I might otherwise.

It helps me recognise the fruitless pattern and drag myself out of the cycle.

It helps me put the lid back on.

But it doesn’t stop the worry dead.

I spent three minutes today watching Simon Akeroyd show me how to grow another head of broccoli from the stem of the head of broccoli I bought at the supermarket yesterday.

I then spent another three minutes doing the math: If we grew our own broccoli and replanted each stem, how many plants would we need to start with to keep us brocked up for a year?

I made a note of his book, Grow Your Own Groceries. It might be worth the investment.

But would I have the time?

Of course, I’d have the time. I’d have nothing but time. What else would I be doing?

If everything does go to pot, then what work will there be for me to do? I’ll have plenty of time on my hands.

I made another note to go through the pile of books I’ve been meaning to donate to the local library. Maybe I should hold back a few, just in case books are the last point of entertainment. They’re plugless. And they can be used for games.

Candles. I need to stock up on candles.

And batteries. Do batteries have a use-by date?

Look at what happened in Spain and Portugal recently. It could happen here, too.

I did a quick search on advice I’d skimmed from the EU about putting together a 72-hour emergency pack.

It must contain photocopies of identification documents, cash, a radio with batteries, a charger and a phone battery, a flashlight, matches and a lighter in case of power failure, a first aid kit, water, food, and board games to pass the time.

mmmm… cash. Hungary recently passed a law making the acceptance of cash mandatory.

Hush. Shush. Don’t go there. It’s just a coincidence.

When it comes to emergency planning, northern European countries are way ahead:

Swedish authorities recommend keeping at home a good supply of water, energy-rich food, blankets and alternative heating, as well as investing in a battery-powered radio. Norway advises people to stock up on non-essential medicines, including iodine tablets, in the case of a nuclear incident. German households have been urged to adapt their cellars, garages or store rooms for use as bunkers, while housebuilders will be legally obliged to include safe shelters in new homes – as Poland has already done.

I can’t change anything other than how I react to this impending doom.

Instead of dwelling on the worst that might happen, I can put my imagination to better use and choose to imagine my version of the Good Life.

And sure, it’d do no harm to lay in some batteries. And candles. And drinking water.

Grateful for friendship and neighbourliness and country living.