George Formby is on a raft leading a singalong outside despite the fact I just entered a pub.
Queuing with Ori for a bargain at Poundland. They have grand stairs and no clothes in my size. There’s a huge piano, and I play along with the background music. It opens and I lose Chee in the crowds, I am trying to get to the CDs but instead find myself outside, at the top of Market Street in Manchester. I am carrying a pink stick and a black stick, which I use to push through the crowds. Eventually I tire of them and throw them randomly behind me.
I am explaining to someone how time travellers come back to Manchesters’ Piccadilly to practice shoot outs. They can see each other and the people who were there. The people can’t see them.