My hands are sweating and I tremble. I look at the clock. 23.55. Five minutes till the moment of truth. Come what may, we will finally know the worst.

Maybe I should go online, learn more, but a friend told me that if anything happens, your computer will fry. No, better keep it off. I quickly unplug it at the mains.

The warnings have been dire. Mass blackouts. Computer failures and power cuts. Aeroplanes have been advised not to fly, they might fall out of the sky. Dams might flood, unable to hold back the mighty waters. Traffic will come to a standstill, there will be no supermarkets functioning, they can't take payments, which would of course lead to mass civil disobedience, rioting and looting. 

23.57. Maybe I should go out and join them? I could do with a new pair of trainers, but I'm a timid soul, and scared of crowds. Besides, if it is going to be the end of the world, I'd rather face it at home with Robinson, my cat.

I switch Radio Four on. No sign of anything out of the ordinary, no government announcements, just a repeat of Round Britain Quiz. Maybe that's all part of the plan. Anaesthetise the population. I check the time again. 23.59.

The radio is going over to Westminster for the chimes of Big Ben. The grinding of the clock mechanism, the carillon before the strike. My knuckles are white, I hold my breath. 

The first Boing! Nothing seems to happen. I go to the window, throw it open. Fireworks in the distance, the cheers from a New Year party. I catch the shreds of Auld Lang Syne somewhere. Then the sound of car horns, raucous and triumphant.

The traffic lights keep working, the electricity grid still functions. I go to switch on my computer, which Windows 98 still boots up. Nothing has changed.

All the warnings about major design flaws, with clocks unable to cope with the change to the year 2000 – the Y2K bug, they'd been calling it. Was that all?

Peter Scott-Presland