We forced the children out for a walk last Friday night, to cries of "It's dark", "It's cold", and "We want to watch The Simpsons". As some arguments aren't worth the bother, we let them stay in Springfield. Then we dragged them from the yellow people.

The police advised flood-watchers to stay away, but we carried on as they surely didn't mean us (a useful defence, that one).

Walking round York was much like any other night at first. People wandered in and out of pubs, which parents among you might need reminding are places of social entertainment where alcoholic beverages are sold. Restaurants windows shone. Taxis taxied. The night was getting its boots on.

Yet as we approached the Ouse, you could tell this one was different. The water was well up the cobbled lane that runs down the side of Museum Gardens. Below, the swollen Ouse surged past, seemingly as wide and brutal as the Amazon. There wasn't much to be seen from Lendal Bridge, as the decorators are still in. Once over, it was possible to look towards Clifton and see the unleashed, muddy river.

Underneath Lendal Bridge, sandbags were stacked against the flood barrier. We climbed the sloped bags and saw that the water was nearly level with the highest layer. It was the same story all along North Street, which was protected by soggy sandbags.

On the shores of Skeldergate, the children paddled in their wellies as canoeists skittered where cars could no longer go.

On Ouse Bridge, we looked at the King's Arms, surely the country's most flooded pub, and only accessible that night by drinkers in possession of a submarine.

Heading home, we stopped on the banks of Huntington Road. With the Foss behind and now in front, some houses rose like islands in a stream. For some reason this local flood seemed even more alarming, perhaps because it was closer to our own tiny patch of York. For a moment we seemed like voyeurs, tourists to someone else's discomfort.

Back home and dry, a happy clich for this night at least, the television was switched on again. Gardeners' World and then Friends.

An historic night had turned back into an ordinary one.

Don't say I told you, but I just heard from of a friend, who had it off someone who talked to a man at a bus stop, who in turn knew a woman who thought she heard on the radio that air is soon going to be in short supply.

So if I were you, I'd take a deep breath and fill your lungs. And once you've got hold of that air, keep it there - and only expend stored air on trips outside to top up your lungs.

You may find that your excursions in search of air are laborious, because everyone else, having heard the same rumour, will be pushing and shoving to get all the available air.

In dire circumstances, it is possible that you may reach the great outdoors only to find a sign saying: "Sorry, no air today".

Do not, on any account, fill your lungs with the wrong sort of air, as this will only lead to all sorts or problems at a later date. And it is unwise to stockpile air, because you may well encounter an awful mess when something or other goes pop.

To preserve all available air, it would be best if you inhaled cautiously until the present silliness subsides, at which point everyone will go back to breathing normally.

And if this column has any advice to offer, it is this: don't panic, and don't listen to people who panic, because a panic shared is two steps short of a crisis.

Air will be readily available again before you know it.