Perhaps the challenge is getting home, but I can make it, plasters and all.
Womble teleported so many poison tankards, and my head holds them all. Everything from face-planting dance floors – apparently – to bleeding nipples. Ouch.
We need to get out of here. To a world of water, paracetamol and bacon sandwiches. I’ve hoped for Timelord genetics implemented to cure hangovers. Hell, we’ve got a lot of everything else.
Womble told me something. Poetry or pop music. Stupid interlocked dimensions. It was important, something I should remember, but won’t. Blame fermented liquid mentalities.
Do you fear the past? I do. There’s some happy stuff, but so much darkness too. Time tries to move us in a straight line, away from and diverting us from everything we leave behind. Womble and I share a darkened history each, I know. But damn if I can remember it all right now. Especially his.
Christ, Mr Timeless Womble, you drive blue box. If I attempt travel now, I could just send us somewhere we don’t want to see. It’s not my best handwriting. Just get me to a meaty sandwich. Something toxin absorbing.
No more drinking. Onto the next adventure. Oh man, my head.