“Eh?” I blink at the screen.
It is all very bizarre. For years, I have been writing my Private Secret Diary at least weekly – yet according to the date on the screen, we have jumped forward in time by ages and ages since I was last here. It is crazy. One minute I am typing away and the next minute I have lost several weeks of history.
Two words flash through my mind. “Time slip.”
I try to make sense of it all, but my brain refuses to respond. It is clear that some sort of wormhole has opened and closed, putting this part of Norfolk in a different time zone. Woah!!! I am a big fan of science fiction, but this is a bit too close to home. I check out of the window to check that the world is not full of strange pyramid structures and ruled by giant ants, but everything seems OK unless they are using some form of docility/obedience implant on my head, like in the TV show ‘the Tripods’.
I check my head in vain. I think I am in the clear. But where has the time gone?
“For Christ’s sake, there are spots all over his arse and legs!” shouts the LTLP, brandishing the Baby at me.
I shoo her away, irritated by her priorities. If the UK really has time-slipped and in the process been invaded by giant ants driving tripods then I am not sure that I completely trust Gordon Brown’s leadership. The Community Bus stops outside the window to pick up one of the old folk. It all seems perfectly normal. But that is what they want you to think.
“Daddy I need a bit of a hand,” calls Child #1, who has been in the toilet for twenty minutes, undertaking her poo.
The Baby toddles over to the cooker and starts turning the gas on and off, on and off.
Things are getting on top of me a little.
First for eddies in the space time continuum
We understand, you’ve too much on your plate to correspond with us. You’re far too busy bloody tweeting!
Here we are, your loyal, (intelligent, wise, amusing and modest) “posse”, the people who made you famous by putting you 343rd on the Times best-sellers list (Sex and bowls section), just cast aside like old shoes.
That’s all the thanks we get, and you expect us to worry about your spotty arse? (Don’t be blaming the baby, either, we know who the LTLP was talking about!)
Child #1 (thank you for that, I have now found that Alt+3 gives me the hash symbol) was responsible for the Hoover-dam of solidified turd? Too many potatoes in her diet, dear boy. But you have no need to worry about the soundness of Gordon Brown’s leadership. Unless Gordon Brown is the B family euphemism for poo?
It’s no localized space-time eddy as it has struck here too apparently. How else would you explain that the Toddler is suddenly Child #1? Have you checked her thoroughly for antenna and possible tripods? Can you, personally, vouch for just what was taking 20 minutes in the toilet?
In Norfolk, science fiction has been set a pretty low bar, seeing as in the fens they had to replace all the TV adverts with soothing music and the message “This is just a magic picture box – do not be afraid!”
Mind you, if you really want to dive into the eldritch abyss of the impossible and bizarre, how about an alternate universe where you can actually hold down a job?
Ivan – Science Fiction has to be rooted in the plausible extrapolation of developments in science or society. Otherwise it is a different genre entirely: ‘fantasy’.
Andy – do you not remember my ‘belle curve’ citation?
Surely EVERYBODY has used ‘I’m off for a meeting with Gordon Brown’ as a euphemism for…?
No…?
Well I am just glad you are back – alive and kicking.
Sorry, Jonny – no story involving you can plausibly be categorized as “fantasy”, except possibly one whose cast of characters also includes a woodchipper, like at the end of Fargo. However, I personally would not savour that scenario either. I abhor violence on principle, not to mention that it’s far too much like manual labour for my tastes…
It’s astounding. Did you try a jump to the left and then a step to the right?
If the Toddler is now Child #1 and the Baby is toddling, is the answer 2 woosles and a wizzle or 2 wizzles and a woosle?
It’s time for my medication!!
Won’t be long now before you reach the stage where every other day is Friday.
I’ll see your time-slip and raise you a time-petticoat. November just seems to have pounced out of nowhere. It’s terrifying.
As for the giant ants, the only sensible explanation is that the Zarbi have taken over, and we’re all wearing big wishbones around our necks.
I loved Tripods. Just sayin’