I strode into the men’s department of a large store and thumped my walking stick on the counter.

“Service,” I bellowed. Quite quickly, two vapid young men who were marking down pairs of jeans sprang up to attend me. It’s remarkable what one can accomplish with a sturdy blackthorn and a loud voice. “Let me see something in a suit,” I said. “And none of your cheap stuff. I pay full price.”

“But everything is marked down,” they said. “Don’t you know there’s a recession?”

“Of course I know that,” I said. “And it’s on because nincompoops like you and your bosses mark everything down. The answer to recession is full price. Now let me see something at full price in executive stout.”

After rummaging around, they produced a nice vested herringbone and I took it.

One of the young men followed me to the door. “Excuse me sir, “ he said. “But how does full price fight recession?”

“Elementary,” I told him. “You pay full price. You put money in circulation. That money is used to purchase goods. The more goods that are purchased, the more that are produced. The more that are produced, the fuller is our employment. And the fuller our employment, the healthier our economy.

“Do the politicians know this?” asked the young man.

“Politicians know something about full employment,” I said. “But not much else. Take cars for instance.”

“Cars?”

“Exactly. Through no fault of their own, our car manufacturers have worked themselves to the edge of bankruptcy. Now, if you did that, you’d go home tonight and find your furniture on the lawn and a bailiff’s notice stapled to your door.”

“But if you are a carmaker?” asked the young man.

“You come home and someone has piled $3 billion in your driveway,” I said.

“Do I take it you disagree with this approach?” said the lad.

“You might say that. If something like the making and selling of cars didn’t work in boom times it is rather hard to see how it will work in tough times. The only lesson I can take from it all is that if you are going to fail, fail big.”

“Ah,” said the young man. “You are making a mistake. If car makers are making cars then workers are making money and money is going into circulation. And all will be well.”

“That’s theory,” I told him. “Practice is something else. If you have seen your job vanish, you start being careful. You don’t spend money or put it in the bank: you bury it in the backyard.”

The young man was crestfallen. “So what do you do? You’re an old coot, you must have lived through some.”

“Prepare,” I told him. “Get ready. Think ahead. Go deep into the country and buy yourself 100 acres or so, preferably with borrowed money. Look for something with a bit of pasture, water and lots of trees. And don’t worry about being near an artisanal bakery or a shop that sells chai latte. We’re talking long-term survival here.

“Think about a cow or two, a good wood stove and a supply of axes. And in the first year or two before the fuel runs out you might find a chain saw handy. And once you’ve done all that, hunker down.”

“That’s it?” he asked in amazement. “But that’s an end-of-the-world scenario.”

I pushed open the door with my walking stick and started thumping away. Then I stopped. “One more thing,” I called over my shoulder. “You might get yourself a gun. That often helps keep the neighbours neighbourly.”

As I left, I had two thoughts. If you are seen as a coot you can speak your mind. And if you are a true coot, you don’t have to worry about a long-term future. Oddly enough, comforting thoughts. IE