The account that follows is a record of quite a strange bit of happenings that I experienced, with great puzzlement, on the 7th of May in 1809, here in Kempston, England. Kempston is a small English village North of London that is quite charming, really, but also quite unremarkable. Kempston is the sort of town in which everyone goes about their business and doesn’t meddle in others, and nothing extraordinary or wonderful happens, really. So it came as a great surprise to me, a shopkeeper in the small town square, and all others in the square when a peculiar sort of man showed up one day. This was not the normal sort of man you expect to show up in any respectable English town, his hair was long and black without a wig, and he was poorly attired in garish clothes that were completely inappropriate. He wore no stockings, but had a pant of some sort that was faded and an unsightly blue colour, coupled with a shirt displaying a form of writing; it seemed to read “Coldplay”. Why someone would ever wear a garish and insensible garment such as that is beyond me, but this young man seemed to think it quite normal, along with his queer way of speaking. As I pondered what nation this young gentleman called home, he suddenly fell over in the middle of the square with a groan, hitting his head on the ground quite hard as he fell. I, being of kind heart and willing to help all who need, immediately rushed over to him and sent for some water to revive the gentleman. He appeared to have sustained a series of minor cuts and scrapes but was mostly exhausted, and when I gave him the water he just groaned and moved his head slightly. Despite ridicule and suspicion of him by the rest of the town, I took his still limp body into the back of my shop and attempted to make him comfortable on one of the tables; where he could get some much needed rest.
Hours later, he awoke.
“Were am I? Wait, let me guess, London?” he questioned.
“I’m afraid not, you’re in Kempston, North of London.” I replied.
“Damn. That far off. Jeremy has really been off his game lately, first sending me to Mumbai 30 years before I was needed, when it was still called Bombay, and now failing to pinpoint me in London. By, the way, what year is it?” he rambled off.
“The year, why 1809, and the date is the 7th of May.” I responded.
“At least he got that right. DO you have any extra clothe that might fit me, I need to be able to blend in to this time, and right now I stick out like a sore thumb” he stated.
“All right, but pardon me if I ask what you are doing here, and where are you from?” I honestly queried.
“I am a just a lost traveler from America who needs assistance in getting to London.” he said, and while it sounded honestly I knew something about it was funny.
“Well, I know you’re not telling the truth, but I will respect your privacy and just speed you on your way” I said as I handed my second set of clothes.
“Thanks,” he said, “by the way, which direction is London”
“ Go down South down the road in the center of town, the opposite direction that you came, and you should be at London in a day or two on foot.” I added.
“Once again, I am truly grateful for your assistance, and maybe one day your ancestors will understand why I am doing this” he said cryptically. Without another word he left on the road, briskly walking out of sight from my little shop with my borrowed clothes. I never figured out what happened to that queer young gentleman or if he accomplished what he needed to in London. Oh well, I have a shop to tend to now, I leave the solving of this mystery to your hands know, perhaps you can glean what I couldn't from this quite interesting story.