I cheated today and caught the bus home from the city. I’d walked in but wetstuff cascaded from the stratocumulus and so I joined a queue at stand E. This is the stand from which brave bus drivers steer their reinforced steel vehicles through a large housing estate with, let’s say, an interesting mix of people. I stood in the queue and a little white-haired elderly woman stood next to me and then pulled at my elbow. “Does the Lache bus stop ‘ere?”
“Yes, I believe it does,” I said wondering if she was a great great (to the power of three) grandmother of a pupil I’d taught at the school down the road.
“Only I can’t see the E.”
“I’ll let you know when the Lache Bus comes along,” I say hoping she was hearing better than me. Her hearing aids were several generations earlier than mine.
“Ta, love. Only I’ve had to wait for ages lately. They should be every ten minutes.”
Stupid pedantic editorial me then said: “Eleven minutes not ten. It’s that extra minute that’s been fooling you.” I grinned at her, but of course she’d not understand.
“Do you mean like in that space-time continuum? Has the Lache moved to the event horizon and so time is attenuated?” She tapped her nose and winked at me.
My mouth dropped. Was this a Time Lord in disguise? A Time Mistress?