The thing about waking up in any year other than the one you thought you were in, was that suddenly you had no idea where exactly you should fit in. Oscar was painfully aware, as he rose gingerly from the leather couch, that he found himself in the exact situation. He didn't belong, at all. The chunky TV, about the width of 6 flatscreens squashed together, would have seemed out of place in anywhere but the 80s.

"Surely this can't be happening." Oscar groaned, pressing the back of his left hand to his forehead to ensure that the hadn't actually come down with a terrible fever all of a sudden.

There was nothing.

In fact, his forehead was so cold it was as if it belonged to a body that had long since left the physical realm. Oscar weighed up his options; he was either dead, which whilst unpleasant, did mean that he didn't have to deal with everyday problems anymore, or he was simply dreaming. If it was a dream, he supposed, it was a break from monotony and he should just bloody well enjoy the time away from living. All things considered, Oscar was taking this very well indeed.

He rose to his feet unsteadily, throwing out an arm to balance himself as the room began to spin and his head felt all fuzzy, comparable to that of TV static but in all its realistic glory, amped up to 100 and in his head. Oscar headed outside, noting that nothing really looked any different to how it should be. The gravel on the ground was still painful on bare feet, and the oak trees that lined the road in their pairs were as sturdy as the day that he had gone to sleep on. However, there was one difference.

Everything was quiet.

Painfully so, Oscar noted. The city of London had been known for its bustling streets and the cars, their omissions practically causing the entire population to slowly choke to death, but on this morning there was simply nothing. Not even his own car was in the drive anymore.

"Good morning stranger, I don't think I've seen you around." A thick Texan accent, one that indicated that the speaker was very far from home indeed, startled Oscar, making him jump.

Oscar's eyes scanned the man briefly; handsome, but the kind of handsome where he definitely knew he was good looking, like an old 50s film star. His hair was thick with product and styled into a Greaser style jelly roll, matching perfectly with his leather jacket, white shirt that clung to his body and black jeans. If it were the 50s (and Oscar supposed it might be) he would be the definition of cool.

"oh, hi, I guess."

Silence hung in the air for a second.

"I s'pose you don't talk to many folk, then? I'm Brendon, nice to meet you." The stranger didn't dare intrude on Oscar's property and so kept his distance from the driveway, remaining firmly fixed on the pavement. Oscar remained frozen as if playing a spontaneous game of musical statues, that he surely would win.

"Oscar. Sorry, my head's a bit fucked." Oscar's cheeks went bright red as he realised that he had probably made the worlds worst first impression within no time at all. His mother would be so disappointed right now.

"You're not from around here, huh?" Brendon's tone was gentle, and his face fraught with concern as he tilted his head to the side.

"You could say that. I don't even know what year it is." he replied, grimacing slightly so as to make him think that it was a joke.

"Well, it's the fine 1980s. Margaret Thatcher is in power and everything is terrible, unless you've got money, of course."