Time Traveling. Again. Again.
I meet myself in The White Hart pub in Basingstoke as usual. I can tell, as soon as I meet him, that I haven't taken any of the advice I gave myself the last time we met. I don't really expect him to. I don't have any children, but I feel paternal towards this rudderless idiot. I know the mistakes he's about to make. He refuses to help himself and I'm foolish to expect him to. I wobble, mysteriously, back in time - I'm not about to go into it - just to see him, to see how he's getting on. He's taken to wearing beads. The hair's slightly shorter and he's moved away from hairspray and onto wax. His thirst remains undiminished. I remember this was the age where I would continue to drink until I passed out, so I'm careful to ration the beers. He doesn't seem to mind. He's grateful for free lager. But I want him to remember our conversations, even if he doesn't really take anything in. It's partly my fault. I'm too old. I alwa...
