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goodness’ sake! And if I want to take the afternoon off I can do that quite easily without having to ask anyone’s permission. Then I realise that if what George is saying is true, then I most probably don’t know where I work and nor can I just take time off any more.
    Suddenly I feel very cold, and very, very scared.
    But how can this be true? Time travel simply isn’t possible – it’s just a fantasy. Something made up by writers and sci-fi geeks who desperately want to believe in something that can’t be done. This is just complete and utter nonsense. I’m about to tell them both so, when George turns his head away from Harry and winks at me.
    ‘You’ll be fine, Jo-Jo,’ he says in that same calm, reassuring voice. ‘Trust me. Go with Harry. Let it Be, and everything will work out just fine. I promise you.’

Three
    ‘So here we are,’ Harry says, as we arrive outside a large building in Manchester Square. ‘Time to face the music again.’
    It had been the strangest journey across London with Harry. When we walked back down the King’s Road the cars moving slowly along the street all appeared to be classic vehicles, the type my father would frequently stop to admire if we were out somewhere. And when we got on the tube, it was like we’d stepped into an old black and white TV show; the clothes the people were wearing looked very peculiar – retro, I guess you’d call them, all the men in smart suits, either cheap or expensive, all the women in warm coats with knee-length pencil-skirted or pleated suits, most of them wearing swept-up beehives or headbands and flicky hairdos and gloves, looking like photographs I’ve seen of Jackie Kennedy. What no one was wearing was casual clothes. A lot of the men wore hats, bowlers and – what did they call them? Fedoras! A few less smartphones were being tapped on – no, cancel that. There weren’t any phones at all.
    ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Harry kept asking me as I stared around me in complete bewilderment during our journey. How could something so familiar, that I use on a daily basis, suddenly become so unsettling? I’d travelled these tube lines hundreds of times before, but I’d never experienced a journey like this.
    ‘Uhuh,’ I answered. Or sometimes I’d just nod. What was happening here? Had I really gone back in time fifty years to 1963 like George had said? No, that just wasn’t possible. But how could I explain what was happening around me right now – the people, the cars, the shop windows we’d passed all appearing to be selling retro goods? There was that word again – retro. Maybe this wasn’t retro; maybe these were current up-to-date goods, clothes and cars I was seeing in front of me. Maybe I really was the one who was from another time, not them.
    Now, as Harry and I stand outside the building that we both apparently work in, I begin to panic. If George is right and by some weird twist I have managed to travel back in time, how am I going to cope? I don’t know anything about the sixties, about how you behave or what you do. I was born in 1983. What do I know, of… of mini skirts and beehive hairdos? I look down at my legs. But I’m not wearing a mini skirt, am I? I’m wearing this incredibly tight red thing that comes down to my knees. It may be tight, but thank goodness I’ve not got my legs out on show. Actually I hadn’t seen any of the super short skirts so synonymous with the sixties since I’d arrived. Was I too early for the mini skirt to even have been invented? Exactly my point – I knew nothing about this era!
    ‘Sure you’re OK to go back?’ Harry asks, looking me up and down. ‘Only I’ve never known you to be this quiet before – and you’re shaking.’
    He’s right. My knees are virtually knocking together in fright at what awaits me through those big glass doors. He reaches out his hands and rests them gently on my arms. I think for a split second he’s going to hug me. But he just looks