LAURA FRANKLIN: Yes, I own a survival kit but it's a disaster

Eventually there comes a point when a girl has to tear herself away from the on-screen drama, remind herself that this is not a made-for-TV movie, mentally process the fact that tumbling bridges and crumbling buildings are real and there is, in fact, nothing to stop something chaotic from unexpectedly transpiring right here.
Yes, here.
At any time. During the morning latte, or smack in the middle of Shortland Street, for instance.
Then she has to ask herself: Am I prepared? Do I have a hard hat and orange day-glo safety vest? (Nope. How about a rather fetching straw hat and hot-pink blouse?)
Ladies and gentlemen, today's column is by way of a public service announcement - a bit like Havoc and Newsboy on the telly saying "fix, fasten and forget". (An extremely good piece of advice, but unfortunately, in my complacency, I've always had trouble caring about the first two "f"s and have jumped directly to the last one.)
Well, no longer.
I'm on a mission: Nailing furniture to the wall, taping ornaments to the shelves and stapling the television securely to the entertainment centre.
There's no way I'm going to be knocked unconscious by a falling Charles and Di commemorative mug, or by a flying Renoir print in a cheap frame.
Okay. Having achieved some measure of stability, the next question arises: How are my emergency supplies?
Hmmm.
Well, as it happens I have a survival kit left over from when the Millennium Bug was supposed to crash every electronic thing, cut off the power, the water and even the television shopping channel, leaving us in a post-Armageddon-type wasteland peopled by desperate bands of renegades huddled around burning oil drums in the street. Of course, as global disasters went it turned out to be a huge disappointment.
Nothing but a massive case of the Geeks who cried Wolf (and made themselves extremely wealthy in the process) and so the survival kit remains intact.
Well, kind of.
I sort of had a chocolate craving one day so I pinched the Milo sachets that were supposed to sustain the family through a hypothermic night in the open.
Also, all the safety pins that were supposed to hold slings and bandages together have been deployed in securing dodgy trouser zips over the years.
The emergency thermal beanies have been stolen by the teenagers, and the torch has been requisitioned for a million different uses, but it no longer has batteries to call its own so, preferably before being plunged into darkness, it's necessary to hunt-and-gather some from the Ladyshave razor, or the novelty talking parrot.
Also, it appears that most of the first-aid stocks, unable to wait for some big dramatic calling, have trickled out for use on paper cuts and bee stings.
So here's the inventory: In case of Civil Defence emergency, I could fall back on one large plastic sheet, one packet of water purifying tablets, tissues, a few assorted plasters, toothpaste, Dettol, a notebook and two pencils.
Oh, and a primus stove with a couple of army-issue meals - dehydrated shepherd's pie, hopefully not made of dehydrated shepherds. Plus, in the kitchen cupboards, due to a shopping error, I have a dozen tins of tomato purée and two bulk catering-sized cans of chilli beans. (No survival rations of nacho chips and sour cream, unfortunately. And, for those tins to be of any use, I'd really have to know exactly where to lay my hands on a can-opener.)
Also, I haven't quite worked out what to do if the survival kit becomes submerged in rubble.
All in all, it has to be said that should we suddenly have an 8.6-er, the situation is looking a bit, well ... shaky. Of course we could wait for an air force Hercules to thunder in and rescue us. If it doesn't break down on the way.
Realistically, the best option is to turn to looting. But meanwhile, dear reader, there is, in fact, a message in all of this.
Get up right now and check the batteries in your torch.