WE observed two minutes silence yesterday morning. What a simple and effective tribute this is. An RAF flypast is spectacular, a 41-gun salute is arresting and the Last Post lifts the hairs on the nape of your neck. But nothing nears the emotional intensity of utter silence.

The impact is all the greater as our world becomes noisier. In our Walmgate offices, the clatter of computer keyboards and the chirrup of phones stopped instantly. Even the clink of decanter against glass from the editor's office was briefly absent. We could hear the birdsong outside. It was like an audible fog lifting.

The first football matches after the Queen Mother's death were preceded by a minute's silence, impeccably observed. Forty-thousand raucous fans stood motionless and mute. The same thing happened at Aintree, minutes before thousands of frenzied punters roared home the Grand National winner. You could almost weigh the silence.

This is the best memorial anyone could wish for. Two minutes when the assembled throng stops everything and focuses on you. It would never happen during your lifetime.

Which set me thinking. Why do we reserve the gift of silence for the dead? Why not shut up for the living?

Imagine it. A daily two minutes silence, enforceable by law. For 120 seconds, blissful peace and quiet. No roadworks. No burglar alarms. No begging "buskers" piping tunelessly on penny whistles. No born-again bikers ripping up the road on hefty Hondas.

Aircraft would be grounded. Supermarket muzak canned. Even, York riverside property owners take note, funfairs halted.

Nothing would be heard, save the melodious hum of the bumble bee and the rasping honk of the goose.

The consequences would be startling and positive. Teachers would hear themselves think for the first time in their careers. Politicians would be forced to stop before they soundbit.

Nagged husbands and worn-down wives would enjoy brief respite. Bores could be escaped and supermodels ignored with ease and impunity.

There really would be nothing on the telly, but no one could complain about it. Witless, boorish radio DJs would be gagged. So too would conceptual artists, who have nothing to say but somehow manage to say it anyway.

Call centre workers would be momentarily freed from the tyranny of the telephone. Every parent and nursery assistant would be issued with a pair of earplugs so they, too, could indulge in the joy of silence.

In this State-enforced serenity, creativity would blossom. New ideas, suppressed by the cacophony of modern living, would spring into people's minds. Venture capitalists would start writing humorous verse. Double glazing salesmen, no longer needed, would embark on violin lessons. A cab driver would come up with a cure for the common cold.

People would lift their heads and notice the world around them. They would begin a quiet, orderly campaign to stop the yobs and the wreckers.

Arguments would be stalled just long enough for the protagonists to consider their opponents' points of view. Two minute ceasefires would grow into something more permanent. Arms dealers would eventually become redundant and would take up flower arranging or mime.

From a couple of minutes' peace to peace in our time. Easy as that.

Of course, if it were to work, the daily silence would need to be properly enforced. Mobile phones could be configured to self-destruct if they were operated during the quiet period. Specially trained police officers would patrol the streets in slippers, ready to nab anyone who so much as squeaked.

And as the architect of the scheme, I would be feted and richly rewarded, and would retire in luxury on my hush money.

Updated: 11:32 Wednesday, April 10, 2002