Surfing the 4th Dimension
It's six o'clock in the morning on Tuesday 25th June, 2032.
You're a student at Jesus College, Oxford University. Your mother, a teacher, and your father, an IT consultant, insisted that you learn the value of money and pay for your own education, which means that most of the time you're living off baked beans on toast in the self-catering flat you rent during term time.
You're only awake because your friend and fellow classmate, Robin, texted you to tell you he had:
SUMTHING RLLY EXCITIN 2 SHO U!!!1
And now, you feel stupid as you stare out at the disgusting weather, and you're thinking about how your bicycle will leave dirt all over the house and how you really could have done with a lie-in... but it doesn't matter now. You're on your way to a building somewhere in Oxford to meet Robin. The streets are empty. There are no pedestrians. Oxford seems like a ghost town.
Suddenly, in the rain there is a flash of lightning, and it momentarily surprises you enough to knock you from your bike. The tarmac of the road greets your face like an old friend. You yelp in pain.
"Can I give you a hand?" a smooth American voice breaks the silence.
You look up. A man, in his late 30s, in a slick 1960s hairdo and a slim suit, towers over you, extending an umbrella.
"Thanks." you mutter, scrambling to your feet.
"What's your name, pal?" he asks.
You don't reply. You can't reply. You've just spotted your bike. It only felt like a minor fall, but the bicycle is mangled. It looks as though it has been through a lawnmower; the wheels are bent in half, the handlebars are perpendicular to one another and the chain has disappeared.
"I'm sorry about that, son," he said, "I didn't mean to park right on top of you. It's the storm. It just... slipped!" he laughs, then extends his hand towards you.
"My name's Mike. Michael Mann," he smiles a Hollywood smile. "It's ridiculous, I know, but who am I to judge my own mother?"
You cannot answer. Something strange is going on. Mike frowns.
"Gee, son, you sure you're OK? You look a little funny."
Now Mike mentions it, you do feel a little strange. Your head feels light. Your limbs are floating. The world seems to be fading to grey and slips away from beneath your feet.
You're a student at Jesus College, Oxford University. Your mother, a teacher, and your father, an IT consultant, insisted that you learn the value of money and pay for your own education, which means that most of the time you're living off baked beans on toast in the self-catering flat you rent during term time.
You're only awake because your friend and fellow classmate, Robin, texted you to tell you he had:
SUMTHING RLLY EXCITIN 2 SHO U!!!1
And now, you feel stupid as you stare out at the disgusting weather, and you're thinking about how your bicycle will leave dirt all over the house and how you really could have done with a lie-in... but it doesn't matter now. You're on your way to a building somewhere in Oxford to meet Robin. The streets are empty. There are no pedestrians. Oxford seems like a ghost town.
Suddenly, in the rain there is a flash of lightning, and it momentarily surprises you enough to knock you from your bike. The tarmac of the road greets your face like an old friend. You yelp in pain.
"Can I give you a hand?" a smooth American voice breaks the silence.
You look up. A man, in his late 30s, in a slick 1960s hairdo and a slim suit, towers over you, extending an umbrella.
"Thanks." you mutter, scrambling to your feet.
"What's your name, pal?" he asks.
You don't reply. You can't reply. You've just spotted your bike. It only felt like a minor fall, but the bicycle is mangled. It looks as though it has been through a lawnmower; the wheels are bent in half, the handlebars are perpendicular to one another and the chain has disappeared.
"I'm sorry about that, son," he said, "I didn't mean to park right on top of you. It's the storm. It just... slipped!" he laughs, then extends his hand towards you.
"My name's Mike. Michael Mann," he smiles a Hollywood smile. "It's ridiculous, I know, but who am I to judge my own mother?"
You cannot answer. Something strange is going on. Mike frowns.
"Gee, son, you sure you're OK? You look a little funny."
Now Mike mentions it, you do feel a little strange. Your head feels light. Your limbs are floating. The world seems to be fading to grey and slips away from beneath your feet.