- Philip Bryer
I met Time-Travelling Ted yesterday.
I was having a drink with a pal in his local, and as we stood with a foot each on the brass rail, he was pointing out some of the faces.
“That’s Time-Travelling Ted,” said Martyn.
“OK…,” I replied, leaving a pause which I hoped he might plug with a bit of background.
Martyn didn’t disappoint.
“Ted lives in a flat above the pub.”
“This pub. Anyway, a few years ago he came down to the bar one lunchtime, but couldn’t understand where he was or what had happened to him. He expected to find himself in the factory in Wolverhampton where he’d worked 35 years ago, but instead he’d wandered into this rather convivial bar.”
“What had happened to him?
“Ted had had a mini-stroke. Wiped his memory card of pretty much everything that had happened to him since he moved south.”
“He’s a lot better now, but he had to rebuild his memory, starting with reacquainting himself with all of us in this place. A few of the regulars organised a fund-raiser for him, try to get him back on his feet, you know?”
“Yes, it was billed as “Let’s Help Time-Travelling Ted Get Back To The Future”