I was in Liverpool walking down Bold Street, not thinking about anything in particular, the way you do.
Busy, bustling Bold Street never changes: the charity muggers, beggars every ten yards and that fellow pretending to be Mexican singing badly.
I was rushing for the bus to get home to watch football on the telly.
I stepped over a tramp outside Oxfam and a hippy wearing an afghan coat pushed into me and sent me swirling.
That’s what caused it: the dosser disappeared, I couldn’t hear the busker and instead a man in white flared trousers and a multi-coloured tank-top looked in the window of Oxfam, which had become a record shop. I saw a man in a trilby hat and across the street a woman in a strange kaftan dress.
Damn, I chided myself. What an idiot. I’ve let myself be transported back to 1967. The first thing I thought was: bugger, I’ll miss the footy on television.
I remembered the first time this had happened. I hadn’t lived in the city more than a year. I confess I was scared witless that time, but not now.
There was nothing to worry about, I had encountered the famous Bold Street time slip before. Innocent people are forever sent back in time. You don’t stay for long.
I always look up and down the street hoping to see John, Paul, George or (even) Ringo out buying groceries.
After all, what’s the point of time-travel if you can’t meet someone famous?
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Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 