I’d heard a snatch of it when I woke up, but had discounted it as imagination or the snatches of a dream. But when I open the door, I hear it again, swelling properly. The kitchen has better acoustics for it. The triumphant armies, the military reprieves, all the big brass and all the violent drums. The Austrohungarian army’s at the gates. And that brass band’s playing the sounds of the first World War.

In my surreal waking I’m lured out into the street. My toast pops up and I wander out to see the pennants flying, the however-many gun salutes, to stand in the sun in all the macho warlike pride. But the music’s changed now; it’s the roaring 20’s. I can hear the jazz and flapper girls. The street is empty, and I find myself dancing. No, dancing is the wrong word. I cease walking and begin to jive.

I emerge from the bank of trees and see the little fair. I remember it from last year, when I was hungover and confused at a recent event. Still a bit confused about that now, but it’s all been for the best. The music ages again, advancing in eras. If I wait long enough maybe I’ll hear the future. With luck it will be something with lyrics.

The first table I come to is a book stall. The first book I discover is “The New Book of Knowledge”. Apparently, a tacky 70’s encyclopedia. But who knows, something more. They probably won’t appreciate my fingering my books with sticky fingers. I’ll return later to read from the book of knowledge. But I never do. The music flares again: agressive once more. Wagnerish. This must be the second world war. Can you see the planes flying? It’ll be Hiroshima soon.

And then the men around me start to sing. Nondescript men. I’d walked through them without realising they were standing as a group. But they throw their heads back and sing. Grey messy beards and snapping fingers. I stepped through the middle of a barbershop quartet. A clean-cut 50’s tune. A neat and ordered world. A mother in a polka-dot dress.

The second table I find is a trash and treasure stall. Mostly trash. Disgusting cutlery. Broken photo frames. But in the way of such stalls, one tiny beautiful meaningless thing.

It’s a small fixed globe on a stand, slightly smaller than my fist, and anachronistic. One of those old-timey maps when they hadn’t worked out the shape of everything yet. Cuba is far too large. Canada has an inland sea. My own country bears too much of the shape of a rectangle. Beautiful maps, but it’s function is not a globe. It’s function is unkown, the maps are purely decorative. There are seven large holes in the north pole I do not understand. At a guess, I’d say they’re to hold pencils, or possibly shake salt. The lady says it’ll cost me a dollar.

I pass through a flower stall. Fingering the holes in the world among the potted plants. The music changes again. Much more drum based, visceral, grabbing you behind the navel. Must be the sexual revolution. I stand among the bromeliads, the world in my hands, and wait for the future to come.