Time flips, folds in on itself, slips sideways.
Starts to feel like December, those advent calendar days, old, old Decembers... being 13, just moved to , London from Scotland. Addicted to computer games for my Spectrum, loving Crash! magazine, poring over 'A Pictorial History of Horror Movies', probably by Dennis Gifford, and starting to wonder if the house we had just moved into was haunted. Above my head the advent calendar hangs...
...and new Decembers too... being 40, and having finished work until after Christmas, and I'm wondering into town, and I've just got paid my bonus, and I go into Trafalgar Street Records, and I find 'Mystery Animals of the British Isles', and I've just got back from seeing my parents at Perranporth, and I didn't know it then, but that would be the last time I would see Perranporth (my parents were to move to the Midlands next year)...
We're lost here, on this infinitely looping mobius strip that never seems to quite loop back to itself again.
Only the past is real.
