Stomping around the house last week muttering "keep calm and carry on", I was not to know Sean Fitzpatrick had beaten me to become the poster idiot for not having sex.
Wearing my old cracked light-sensitive glasses ( to combat snow blindness), many upper layers of strange woolly clothes, a hat which gave me all the appeal of a nuclear accident victim, bright stripey long johns and mismatched socks, my not-having-sex-appeal was clear.
But at that stage the news of the ill-fated Telecom campaign about abstaining for the game had not broken. Ignorance was bliss.
I did not need to imagine how much less sexy I would have looked than Fitzy driving around in a pink fist. Nor did I need to ponder on the sense of one of the ad men telling us that fans are even more fanatical than players. Fans, fanatical?
Say it isn't so.
Perhaps a greater understanding of words' meanings might help ad men plan better campaigns.
Since every television advertisement for the Rugby World Cup so far has bored, irritated or baffled me, a Telecom campaign to abstain from watching any of them would have got my vote. But I had greater things to worry about.
As I listened to the severe weather warnings I saw myself as a poster girl for civil defence. If there were to be blizzards, gales, no power and isolation, I would be prepared.
"Bring it on!" I yelled to the elements, fighting the cat for sitting space on the top of the old Conway heater.
Whatever fate might hurl in my direction I would need to be able to boil water, I decided, not in case it was needed in the event of a baby's birth, but so I could have a cup of tea and fill a hot water bottle for bed.
In the basement gloom, maniacally whirring my way around with my dynamo torch, I eventually managed to find both parts of the Thermette without breaking my neck on scattered tools, old bikes and other junk. But what about water?
I realised my supplies inside the house could be limited without power, as an electric pump takes water from an underground rainwater tank.
Would I run the risk of drowning in said tank by trying to remove water with a bucket?
Then I remembered my above-ground tank. Had the First Born installed a tap on that?
I knew he'd talked about it. En route to the tank I fell over, landing gently and safely in leaf litter, ignominy ignored when I discovered there was indeed a tap and it worked. Yay.
A search of likely hot water bottle hiding places revealed nothing, so it was off to the shop to buy one and some batteries for the radio. As my sensibly sized radio was in my drawer at work, I required eight large batteries for an old ghetto blaster. To prevent me going into overdraft, the shopkeeper kindly gave me a discount.
The shop had no hot water bottles, but I was a woman on a mission.
By this time snow was falling intermittently, but keeping calm I carried on to town and the supermarket. One side of the car was covered in snow by the time I emerged with two hotties (just in case) and enough toilet paper for a year.
I was ready.
I had resisted the urge to buy food at the supermarket. I knew I had plenty of supplies.
I'd already made a batch of kedgeree, which I could eat cold if the power went off.
A search of the cupboards revealed I had about half the world's stock of sardines, a can of chick peas, several tins of tomato puree, some tired looking vegetables, a packet of '80s Surprise Vegetables and sachets of yoghurt mix, well beyond their use-by date.
It was not particularly inspiring, but I kept my strength and spirits up by eating the remnants of something which appeared to be prehistoric chocolate.
On the excitement front , the snowfall was a fizzer. The power stayed on. No noisy kids slithered down the neighbouring farm's slopes.
There was no husband to insist on a scary car snow hunt. The cat was disdainful.
The Thermette sulks by the back door and I have already forgotten where I put the hotties.
I have tried to overcome my disappointment by being proud of my preparedness. Then, this week a son's friend recounted a childhood snow experience.
He vividly remembers arriving at my place suffering from hypothermia (slight exaggeration on his part) and being warmed by some home-made soup. He was amazed at the barley in it, something he had never encountered before.
I have no memory of this event, or the soup. I laugh, but I feel more like crying.
- Elspeth McLean is a Dunedin writer.
