I’ve had these ideas floating around in my head for about a month now. Nothing completely solid. Just simple plot points mapped out on paper, not yet linked together, but I know I want to include them.

It was one such afternoon of writing notes on each of my characters, the grumpy-and-seemingly-nonchalant-but-secretly-actually-cares-‘you’re-an-idiot’ detective, the sneaky but overly cocky thief and the twattish and spoilt thirty-something that has recently taken over his parents mansion.

I was minding my own business, building character profiles and mood boards, trying to get something -anything- on paper, when I felt this weird dizziness fall over me. I set my pen down and rested my forehead in the palm of my hand and shut my eyes, waiting for the sensation to pass. It worsened until I stood up from my desk and stumbled over towards my bed and laid down, hoping the change of position would make the spinning stop. It did not.

I must have fallen asleep or passed out, because the next thing I knew was being shaken rather violently by my shoulder. I sat up and opened my eyes, coming face-to-face with a gruff-looking landlord, a bushy grey beard and equally bushy moustache, mousy eyes squinting at me. A quick glance around told me I was sitting in a pub, surrounded by men in tweed jackets and bowler hats, 95 percent of them talking around a black or brown pipe between their teeth.

I turned back to the man in front of me, who was stood with his arms folded. “Where am I?” I asked, in what I hope was an innocent, confused voice, and not as though I was some very drunk individual who had passed out in his bar.

“Where are you? Bloody hell, you must’ve had a lot to drink-“ (Damn.) “You’re in my pub, lady, the-“

I presume the words he said next was the name of his pub. His mouth moved to form some letters – don’t ask me, I can’t lip read- but no sounds came out. Ah, that’ll be because I haven’t thought of the name yet.

What? Where did that thought come from? I had the strangest feeling that I wasn’t quite in reality. An old Victorian pub, that much was obvious. And it was either filled with very dedicated reenactors… Or… Could it be?

A quick movement in the far corner of the pub caught my eye, and I turned to see two men huddled over a table. One had a paper-boy style hat pulled down close to his eyes and appeared to be talking very hurriedly. The other was smoking a pipe with one leg folded over the other, looking far more relaxed or unfazed than his companion.

I watched their exchange for a while, then turned to the landlord who was still standing next to me. “Wow, aren’t you persistent?” I joked. He didn’t smile. “Who are those men, over there in the corner by the window?”

“The bloke with the pipe is Daniel Turner, he’s one of the new bobbies in town. The other I don’t know, and I am not one to pry. Now, you seem to have had a little too much to drink so go on, get out of here.” He grabbed me by the arm and pulled me up out of my chair and towards the front door of the pub. I stumbled out of the door and braced myself on my knees. I heard the door slam behind me and sighed.

“Daniel Turner? Then I’ll bet you that’s my John in there as well. Huh. The one scene I’ve actually written for this blasted book.”

I knew some of the plot points but had no idea how they could help me, and I couldn’t go back in there and tell Daniel or John about them because I’d get arrested, either for going back in there after being kicked out, and sounding completely insane or equal parts suspicious, to go in there spouting things about murder.

How on earth was I to travel several hundred years into the future to the present day? Or out of this seemingly fictional world I’d woken up in, with no idea how I got in here or how I’m supposed to get out of here.

Though, I probably needed to go and find some clothes first, my Winnie the Pooh pyjamas were drawing a lot of attention.