Oscar had hardly drifted off before being awoken by the sound of shouting from outside the house. Dazed and confused, he jumped out of bed, barely giving his eyes enough time to adjust to the lack of lick as he felt his way to the window. Peering outside, Oscar's face contorted into a frown as he noticed a group of youths, grubbily dressed, as if they were straight out of a Victorian storybook. The garden, which had once been wide and vast out the back of the house, was now a cobblestone pavement creating a bridge between his house and the next, currently being battered by heavy rain and barely visible from the thick London fog.

Lifting the window open and sticking his head outside to peer around, their jeers and shouting became even louder, with the smallest of the three attempting- rather pathetically- to spit at Oscar. He simply laughed and taunted the youths.

"Why don't you lot piss off back to whatever work house you've come from." He practically snarled, eyes widening as he did not recognise the accent that left his mouth. It was pithy- middle class, even- and painfully fake British, as if he was trying his best to be Charles Dickens.

Suddenly, he slammed the window shut with a dark thud and spun around the room, really getting a look at his surroundings. It was much smaller now, and much more plain, with one ragged red rug layer over the wooden floorboards, a simple double bed pushed towards the far end of the wall, and the only personal item in the room being a large wooden wardrobe. It was as if he had walked into someone else's room, and someone else's life entirely, like he didn't quite belong. It was a feeling that the had grown used to as a teenager.

Oscar frantically moved around like a wild animal, looking for a mirror. Finding one on the inside of the wardrobe, he held back a gasp as his features had seemingly changed overnight. He was suddenly dressed in full Victorian get up, grey waistcoat, black overcoat and trousers, black polished boots and a gold pocket watch on his persons. The quiff that he usually sported was now slightly curled, and flat against his forehead, possibly from being covered with a top hat.

Oscar stormed out furiously, unaware of how late it was, stumbling down the stairs and past the drab wallpapered corridor, heading gout the front door and slamming it shut, his eyes adjusting to the London in front of him. Smoke poured out of a factory pipe, not far down the road, and the street was now narrow and fully cobbled, the houses squashed together with no more space for driveways. As he stepped out the door, he stepped straight into the straight.

"woah! my good man, watch yourself there. You don't want to get hit by a stray horse, I hope?" The accent was the kind that made Oscar physically vomit when he heard it. Private school kid.

"I'm fine-"

Oscar was caught off guard when peering into the face of the man he had seen in the bar no less than a day ago.

Except that was in 1980.