A couple of days ago, Andrew dropped in a for a brief visit. He happened to notice that I still have my wedding photographs up on the wall and he mentioned that this seemed a bit odd – what with me being happily divorced and all.
(I’m actually thinking about putting a caption under the frame, but I’m torn between “Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it” and just plain old “Fail” )
This steered the topic conversation towards the question of time-travel. As these things do. I’ve always figured that if I could go back, I would naturally provide my past self with useful information like stock tips, Lotto numbers and the identity of my wife-to-be. Now since I am not filthy rich and I didn’t run away screaming when I was introduced to my ex-wife for the first time, I can only assume that future-me will never have access to the requisite technology (for this timeline, at any rate).
So does this mean that time travel doesn’t happen? Of course not. Andrew was able to argue the case most convincingly. In answer to my question, “So where the fuck are all the time-travellers then?”, he posed an elegant counter-question: “Dude, have you been to Camps Bay lately?”