He has to be careful when he’s out and about.

Fortunately in the supermarkets and bars they don’t play Banghra Knights that much any more. It’s too 2003. And that wasn’t a great time for anyone, really.

If he heard it he’d zip back, uncontrollably. To who knows what time within his life. All of the steps and missteps and wonder since, erased. And he’d have to do it all again. With no memory, only a vague sense of the paths taken before.

Sometimes he fucked up. And he’d whack it on. And give it all another go. It was a good get out of jail free card. Sometimes literally.

2003 was particularly hard. Because it was always on the radio. It took him many trips back and forth, to last week and last month and last whatever to finally realise what was going on. And when he did, he got on a plane to Finland, where he hid out for six years, listening only to the wind and the water and the warblings of the Helsinkian carpenter in the flat downstairs.