​Time Slipped

The grandfather clock in the hallway didn’t just chime; it groaned, a heavy metallic protest that echoed through the draughty floorboards of Blackwood Manor. Arthur checked his pocket watch—a silver heirloom that had been right twice a day for a century, but was currently spinning its hands like a propeller.

​"Not ideal," Arthur muttered to his reflection in the hallway mirror. He adjusted his spectacles, grabbed his umbrella—essential for any English outing, regardless of the era—and stepped out of the front door.

​He expected the usual sights of a Tuesday morning: his neighbour, Mr. Henderson, struggling with a temperamental lawnmower, and the distant, reassuring rumble of the A4 meeting the motorway. Instead, the silence was absolute, broken only by the sharp clack-clack of hooves on cobbles.

​The tarmac was gone. The streetlamps, usually buzzing with a pale LED glow, had been replaced by ornate iron posts topped with flickering gas flames. A thick, yellowish fog—the sort of "pea-souper" his grandmother used to describe—clung to the brickwork of the village.

​"Right then," Arthur said, pulling his tweed coat tighter. "It seems the morning has gone a bit sideways."

​The Wrong Side of the Century

​Arthur began to walk toward the village green, his sensible brogues squelching in a mixture of soot and mud. He passed the spot where the Sainsbury’s Local should have been. In its place stood a grim-looking apothecary with jars of leeches displayed in the window.

​A group of children in oversized flat caps and waistcoats stopped their hoop-rolling to stare at him. Arthur realised, with a slight flush of embarrassment, that his waterproof North Face jacket and glowing smartphone must make him look like a visitor from Mars.

​"Good morning," Arthur nodded politely to a passing gentleman in a top hat.

​The man paused, squinting through the fog. "Bit early for the masquerade, isn't it, sir? And what, pray tell, is that glowing brick in your hand? A new-fangled lantern?"

​"It’s a... portable sun," Arthur lied, sliding the phone into his pocket. "Saves on the oil bill."

​"Capital idea," the man chuckled, though he edged away toward the pub—which, thankfully, was still called The King’s Arms, though it looked considerably more soot-stained than it had yesterday.

​A Glitch in the Tea

​Arthur retreated into the pub, hoping the familiar smell of stale ale might ground him. Inside, the air was thick with pipe tobacco and the heat of a roaring hearth. There was no jukebox, no television showing the cricket, and certainly no Wi-Fi.

​He sat at a heavy oak table and looked at his watch again. The hands had stopped spinning. They were now moving backward.

​"You look like a man who's lost his way, or perhaps his mind," a voice rasped.

​An elderly woman sat in the corner, peeling an apple with a pocketknife. She wore a heavy shawl and looked as though she’d been sitting in that exact spot since the Battle of Hastings.

​"I think I've lost my decade, actually," Arthur admitted. "I was on my way to the chemist for some paracetamol, and I seem to have tripped over the 1890s."

​The woman smiled, revealing a notable lack of dentistry. "Time’s like an old rug, dearie. Occasionally it bunches up. You’ve just caught your toe on a wrinkle."

​"Does it... un-bunch?" Arthur asked, feeling a sudden, sharp longing for his microwave and his electric blanket.

​"Only if you find the seam," she said, pointing her knife toward the village church. "The clock tower. It’s the heart of the village. If the pulse is off there, it’s off everywhere."

​The Long Way Home

​Arthur thanked her and hurried out. The fog was thickening, and the sounds of the Victorian world were growing louder—the shouts of street vendors, the clatter of heavy carts, the smell of coal and unwashed humanity. It was fascinating, certainly, but Arthur had a roast chicken in the fridge that he’d intended to eat by 7:00 PM, and he wasn't about to let it go to waste.

​He reached the church, the stone cold and damp under his touch. The clock tower loomed above him. As he climbed the narrow, winding stone stairs, the air began to hum. It was a low-frequency vibration that made his teeth ache.

​At the top, the clockwork mechanism was a chaotic dance of brass and iron. But one gear—a massive thing the size of a wagon wheel—was shuddering. Stuck between its teeth was something bright, plastic, and entirely out of place: a neon-green frisbee.

​"Henderson’s boy," Arthur sighed. The neighbour’s lad must have lost it over the wall weeks ago. It had somehow wedged itself into the "seam" of the village’s history.

​Arthur reached out, his fingers tingling with static. With a sharp tug, he yanked the plastic disc free.

​The Return

​The world didn't explode. There was no flash of light. Instead, there was a sound like a giant intake of breath. The smell of coal smoke vanished, replaced instantly by the scent of petrol fumes and cut grass.

​Arthur blinked. He was standing on the pavement outside the modern-day King’s Arms. A red double-decker bus roared past, splashing a puddle near his shoes.

​He checked his silver pocket watch. The hands were perfectly still, pointing exactly to 10:15 AM.

​"Everything alright, Arthur?"

​It was Mr. Henderson, clutching a bag of groceries. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Or spent too long in the pub."

​Arthur looked at the neon-green frisbee in his hand, then at the sleek, tarmac road and the glorious, mundane sight of a telephone box.

​"Just a bit of a slip, Henderson," Arthur said, tucked the frisbee under his arm, and began the walk home. "But I think I've found my footing again."

​He made sure to double-lock the grandfather clock when he got back. Some things, he decided, were better left unticked.