History as we know it would be quite different if people were given second chances. Joan of Ark, for example, might have decided to tell those nagging visions to simply bugger off, that she was quite happy as a peasant and that the English, though undoubtedly criminals when it comes to matters of the palate, weren’t such a bad bunch after all.

Or take Marie Antoinette. No doubt she would have chosen her words with more care. Instead of advocating the inclusion of cake and other pastries in the diet of the starving and revolting masses, she probably would have mumbled something about “socioeconomic disparity”, linked with an “unstable supply in certain commodities leading to unforeseen, but inevitable shortages which would, no doubt, be addressed meaningfully and decisively and that anyway, cakes – a high source of trans fats - could not possibly serve the common good or be good for the commoners”. Or something like that.

These historical example should be used sparingly, but they do help to shed light on the citizens of the greatest province in the world, if one does not count Saxony. Simply put (although it might be too late for that) you will seldom find us Nova Scotians unprepared when history lobs a re-run in our general direction, especially when the re-run in question is a rather largish storm.

Astute archivists and students of this column are already aware that we Bluenosers were not too panicked when told that Hurricane Juan was bearing down on us. From the youngest to the oldest, nonchalance was the order of the day. Thus, babies were seen pointing at the gathering clouds and smiling, middle aged men thought about boarding up windows, but mowed their lawns instead, while grandmothers of various sizes told everyone within earshot that in centuries past they had lived through much worse and that the young in general worry way too much.

Meanwhile weathermen, their faces in various shades of red, were sounding the alarm, but only Mrs. Applebee of 6634 Black street took notice and caused a one person run on candles. The rest of us were caught utterly unprepared in bars, bowling alleys, and beds when the storm hit.

For the reader to get a picture of Halifax the morning after Juan, imagine Pompey minus the lava, togas and Romans. Like the ancient city, we were left without television and power, and like the Pompeians we were now forced to walk to the nearest Pizza Place on foot, since trees had carelessly and indiscriminately strewn themselves over roads and alleys, making deliveries next to impossible. In short, the whole thing was an utter disaster.

It was only natural then, that when Hurricane Ophelia was announced with great pomp and circumstance, we Nova Scotians sprang into action. Babies stopped smiling and started to load formula into their strollers, middle aged men finished mowing their lawns then hurried to the nearest beer store, and grandmothers stocked up on knitting yarn and green bingo markers. Classes in hoarding saw an increase in attendance, yet the mood of the city was one of defiant calm.

As a good Haligonian, I followed the stoic and orderly preparations that were underway . Thus, there was no hint of panic as I bought 42 packages of ‘D’ cell batteries, 15 flashlights, 42 cases of flatbread, 16 cylinders of propane and a 300 bottles of Perrier (lemon flavour). Calmly I wrestled a feisty 60 year old for the last transistor radio and stoically hit her with a Tysonesque uppercut when she started to swing her cane.

A slight restlessness did creep in for a moment when my two new generators refused to be stuffed into my Sunfire, but my peace of mind was restored when they found ample room in an SUV which I had car-jacked without any undue haste.

She-Who-Should-Be-More-Rational, it must be said, did in the end loose her cool when we could not seem to find any room for the dairy cow that I had found wandering in the Valley, but overall my preparations for Ophelia went off with military precision. I could only ruefully smile at all those last minute hoarders. They must have immigrated from B.C.

They say that history repeats itself. If so, Ophelia failed to read the script. Instead of blowing ashore with the fury of a Wal-Mart shopper who had lost her coupons, she strolled by, had a quick look around, decided that a direct assault was simply not worth the trouble, and quickly booked herself on the next flight to Newfoundland.

A palpable sense of disappointment was felt all across the province. Being snubbed by an enemy can have a deflating effect. Imagine, if you please, France in 1941, expecting to be invaded by the mighty German army, finding herself attacked by Liechtenstein, instead . An insult such as that would have caused a grievous blow to the pride of Frenchmen short and tall, from which they would not have recovered to this date.

Nova Scotians, however, are made of sterner stuff. Ophelia was quickly forgiven her faux pas, and life returned to normal. There was only the small matter of the 15 pumpkin pies which were now resting on the crate of candles in our bathroom. After a short deliberation with She-Who-Was-Right-After-All , I decided that the best option was to bring them down to the soup kitchen: let them eat cake.