The Omega Newsman

If you run out of firewood you'll have to start having a go at some of those wooden benches in that little park on the roundabout towards the river.

Talking of which, that's probably the best place to set up camp. It's sheltered from the wind and from sight, and it's near the water which is a useful source of food and leisure.

If it's been dry you should be able to find some handy wiry grasses that will make good tinder, if not some shredded paper from a disgraced bank will do great.

If you haven't "found" any pencils for kindling from one of the abandoned office towers then use your tough knife and bash the blade lengthways down some of your smaller logs until they are nice and small.

Of course, if you find yourself allowed to camp on the estate, there has clearly been some painless and probably reversible apocalypse which has rendered Canary Wharf depopulated.

Maybe everyone, all at once, decided to cash in on those projected house-price differentials and downshifted to Devon. Right now they all down there trading cider futures and having vicious turf wars over chutney.

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Anyway, say that you, alone, stayed behind on the vacated Wharf and you need to survive. Luckily, the freezers at Waitrose are still switched on so you've got a good few months before you have to get your hands dirty foraging in Tesco.

So chop your wood into plate-size chunks, eviscerate a shopping trolley and use its stomach as a grill.

Leave plenty of air between your stack of wood in the fire - it's the best way for cooking and for warmth.

Once you've had your tea, maybe listen to the radio to keep from getting lonely. Hear the latest about the mean streets of that Teignmouth and thank the stars you can see at last that you live somewhere peaceful.

Even in extreme survival situations, it's a good idea to maintain pleasant night-time rituals.
So liberate some cosy jim-jam bottoms from John Lewis and a nice clean white T-shirt.

Get in your four-season sleeping bag, get your head down and think nice thoughts - you need your rest.

Sweet dreams.

Dan Bourke also writes at mirror.co.uk/dan-bourke