Droidberg isn't exactly the most cheerful of robots even on a good day. Having said that, one would have to know Droidberg well to understand that a good day looked more or less like a bad day, aside from the excess expletives seamlessly interspersed into the already pessimistic ranting. "Don't know why you bother," mutters my robot as he slumps along behind me, momentarily pressing his belly button to reveal little wheels on the soles of his feet to recharge his feet. Walking isn't the easiest of tasks for the new Droid 3000, but then again, having legs and feet to walk on is better than having wheels full stop and not a lot else in the way of mobility, as Droidberg points out at least six times per hour. “It’ll only break again when you fit it to your jetpack.”
Pause right there, I hear you say. But I know what you’re thinking. Set in the near-but-yet-so-far year three thousand; cursing robots; jetpacks and over confident sisters. Typical future fantasy out to bore you brainless like all the others out there. Maybe it is, but I wouldn’t know, because like I said my future – at least the parts similar to those in that genre of books I never read – hasn’ttechnicallyhappened to me yet.
Anyway, getting back to my Droid and his incessant ramblings. I am trying to reinvent my powerhub which slots into my jetpack. No, my jetback doesn’t allow me to fly, doesn’t shoot rockets out of its backside so I can charge after the humdingers in the city. It only allows me to stay awake longer, without sleeping, just in case I get caught without a place to stay (which isn’t often, I must admit. My mother stopped kicking me out of our house when she realised that I only found my way back home eventually. Most three year olds tend to after they’ve been told to go and play in the road just one or five times too many). I have only had to use it twice, both of which have occurred in the last month, hence draining my battery. Fixing it should be simple, you’d imagine, it being the future and all, except that is the thing. It isn’t really the future for me. I’m just visiting.
It’s all a little tricky to explain. Who time travels, right? Apart from Doctor Who and the coolkids, the odd granny who wants to relive her youth wrinkle free and without regret. I’d like to tell you when it began, but I honestly couldn’t say. In a way, it’s been with me my whole life, it’s only now though that I realise how this can be.
Take my second birthday for example. Anyone who was there (or has known me since) will have heard the story of how, just as I blew out my candles, I wished out loud for a happy marriage, the safe delivery of my second set of triplets, and an Aston Fartin Invinceable if there was any money left in the plot. Now, bearing in mind that I hadn’t long been able to speak, and that is was 1993, this all appeared somewhat odd. At best it seemed like the extravagant dream of an over ambitious toddler, one who’d most likely grow up to be a suit wearing, Oxbridge going rich kid with more money than sense. At worst it sounded like a time traveller stuck in the body of a two year old, which was rare, but not unheard of. Even then, when I was blissfully unaware of this whole other world I'd yet to discover, there was an element of time travel in my life. I only wish I'd been able to cap it before the contents exploded with as much force as the product of putting a mint in a bottle of coke and letting the inevitable happen.
And, as Droidberg hastily reminds me as I tell him to for once try smiling instead of scoffing at every thing I do or say, I'm not exactly without flaws; as the king of pessimism himself informs me, I tend to exaggerate. Which, when time travelling isn't the most handy of traits, especially when trying to recount to my recently appointed sister as Head of Communications, Year 3000. (She is still settling in, but if she'd just get through relating everything she hears of from the new millennium to that damned Busted song from a thousand years ago.)