29th October 2017
Time-travel is a fickle mistress, I reflected as I enjoyed my morning bowl of Honey Nut Bran Fruit Nonsense Crunch cereal, the milk turning a melancholy shade of purple as the fruity obscenities of my breakfast dissolved like an ombudsman’s shame.
    Of course, the universe being the twattish trickster it is, it was at that moment the clock fell off my wall and into my mind, sending me hurtling eight-hundred years into the past, back to a simpler time, before modern comforts such as moustaches and trees.
    “Eeee, what be this sorcery then?” a filthy peasant said as he gazed in awe at my futuristic neck and other treats.
    He told me his name was Wedge Buckle and we became friends, he and I, and solved medieval crimes through a combination of my advanced mind-meats and his muck-smeared barbarism. I like to think we made a difference.
    Forty years later, Wedge and I were reminiscing about our youthful adventures over a couple of glasses of liquified butter when a miniature sundial fell from the beak of a passing ostrich and struck me on my mind, hurling me into a fresh chrono-vortex that returned me to my own time, not a minute older than when I had left.
    After an entire half-hour’s worth of research, I learned that after my disappearance, Wedge Buckle had remained active and an inspiration until his death, going on to invent pigs, become the mayor of Funkytown, and more.
    As for me, one of the best men I had ever known and had the honour to call my friend was centuries in his grave. It was a sobering thought, and I blame this distracted and thoughtful mood for my only winning the runner-up trophy at the dance contest that afternoon. The past catches up to all of us sooner or later.