Until quite recently, Bermuda didn't have many tall buildings. All that has changed, which is handy for residents wanting to end it all, as a result of the financial crisis.

Following a dazzling display of downright stupidity in the US parliamentary system (I use the last word loosely), even the most optimistic have lost hope that we might avoid catastrophe in the financial world.

I cannot, however, recommend that you jump off the top floor of a tall building, because the elevators to the highest floors of all local buildings will be clogged by the doomed, en route to a fall that will mirror the value of their shareholdings and bank balances.

You'll never get it done that way.

Besides which, there is no point trying to jump off the top floor of buildings in Hamilton. Due to "setback" requirements, you will only land on the next floor down, which juts out. You'll suffer only minor bruising and look silly when the media arrives to interview you. Better to be dead than to lose face, don't you agree?

The fifth floor is often your best bet. The Cathedral is especially hopeless. You'll just slide down the roof and land on a bishop.

Here are a few handy etiquette tips as the world ends.

1. If the next few years mirror the early 1930s, we should expect to see breadlines forming. Knowing this, the smart place to sleep would be on the pavement outside the Crow Lane Bakery. That way, when the bread is available, you'll be among the first to receive some. If you hold your ground, you might also be among the second.

2. Remember to use your elbows and knees when dealing with the old and the infirm. Balance is often a problem for the aged; a swift elbow to the ribs and down they'll go, like a French soccer player in the penalty area.

3. Always carry your own bowl, for begging purposes. It's highly unlikely that you will meet anyone who can spare a dime, but if you do, stick the bowl under his or her nose and cry: "I haven't eaten in a week!"

If you look as if you've eaten half a dozen times in the past 15 minutes, don't worry: soon you'll be as thin as Nancy Pelosi's understanding of how the world works.

4. This is by no means the end of civilisation, so don't be totally depressed. Some politicians will survive in their bunkers, as will pit bull terriers and cockroaches. So that's all right then.

5. I am often asked whether it is better, under such circumstances, to stay home, staring into the gloom, or to go out and about, pretending to enjoy yourself. I think that depends on where you feel you'll be going for your next life: upwards or downwards.

6. All that good advice I gave you about saving money was not wasted: now is the time to tell people how much money you used to have. As you all stand around the burning oil drum, warming your hands, you will have the best story to tell, unless there's a reinsurance CEO standing near you.

7. More good news: none of your cable channels will work, but you won't be able to tell the difference between the new, dreadful times and the good old days.

It'll be just like it always was, with "Signal scrambled" coming up all the time, or the picture locking up and dissolving into lots of fuzzy digital boxes. What fun!

8. Should you eat gravel? Certainly not. Soil is much healthier, and will contain the odd worm, which is full of protein. Leaves and berries are good, too. Sand is difficult to swallow.

9. Sell your car. Buy a horse. Eat the horse.

10. Find a wife (anyone's). Eat the wife.

Am I joking about all this? Yes, sort of.

The announcement that a rescue plan was to be granted should only ever have been immediately followed by one thing: a rescue plan. Dithering is absolutely the worst enemy of progress.

It seems we can't trust financial people to run our finances, nor our politicians to run our politics. Only journalists can save us now.

Back in the real world, I'm still on dial-up, Internet-wise. I find it best that way. If I had a decent connection, I'd spend 24 hours a day surfing off My Facebook and other waste-of-time sites, instead of which I have a job and what I laughingly call a life.

This strategy, which has led to significant cash savings over the years, was a little challenged this week. My new computer, which runs the disastrous Vista programme from Microsoft, came with a Norton security programme that protects it from viruses, colds and hay fever. The free Norton protection ran out on Sunday, but I fooled them: like a cheap hooker in a boom town, I had bought a year's supply of protection.

I put the disk in the sliding tray thingie and on it whirred. Up came a sign saying something like "Buy thousands of these products at inflated prices NOW!" but I was able to discern that I didn't need any of them.

I clicked Run, which is what I should have done, in the other direction, when the computer was first invented.

Up came a sign saying "Download updates first". Fair enough, I thought, although technically you can't update what you don't have, and besides, I already had all the updates on the expired security system.

I clicked OK. Two minutes later, back came a sign that said: "Download time remaining: 4,295,613,297 minutes". I did the math: something over 8,000 years. That's right: 8,000 years.

Instead, I stole some broadband I found lying around, and it took about five minutes. Thank Goodness.

Otherwise, this column would have been 8,000 years late, although by then, the US economic system might have started to emerge from the mire.