You know the thing I'd do first

'Kids, it's been almost twenty years since that cold April night in 2013 and I can safely tell you that if I could go back in time and relive that night, there's no way in hell I'd go to 'Robots vs. Wrestlers'. No, I'd go home.

I'd go to my old apartment, see all my old furniture, my old stuff. I'd see my old drafting table, where I sketched out my first building. I'd sit on that old couch and smell the Indian food cooking three stories below.

I'd go to Lily and Marshall's place, be back in that old living room where so many things happened. I'd see the baby. I don't know if you can picture me holding your six-foot-seven cousin Marvin over my head, but back then I could.

I'd go have a drink with Barney and Robin, watch them fight about their caterer or whatever it was they were fighting about that night.

But none of those things is the thing I'd do first. You know the thing I'd do first.'

Ted Mosby, The Time Travellers

As Ted Mosby climbed the stairs of his apartment block, he reflected on the day that had passed. It had been lengthy and not altogether successful, featuring two seminars in which he had effectively lectured hung over, reluctant sophomores who were even less interested in modernist architecture than he was. He was glad that he could look forward to delivering tomorrow's lecture on neo-classicism, a style which he found significantly more rewarding, so much so that he practiced his oration as he continued his gradual ascent to his apartment.

He approached his front door and reached for his keys in his pocket. As he looked up, he noticed that the door was ajar, yet there was no mark on it to indicate forced entry. He stepped inside, surveying the apartment for signs of intrusion, but it was as clean as it had been when he had left in the morning. Nonetheless, having lived in New York for fifteen years, he was prepared for the possibility of a break in, although if this was a break in, it had been undertaken by a remarkably tidy troop of burglars.

'Hello,' he said.

No response was forthcoming. Ted heard the bathroom lock click open. He searched for the nearest object he could find to use as self-defence – a copy of Architecture Weekly Magazine lying on a nearby shelf.

'Dammit Ted,' he said to himself.

The door opened and he heard footsteps on the stairs. Ted stood poised, his magazine rolled up as if ready to swat a fly, when the intruder appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

'Hi,' he said.

Ted failed to reply. He took in the appearance of the man that had let himself into his apartment – he wore a tweed jacket, grey suede shoes and blue trousers, with a maroon shirt under a sleeveless navy blue sweater. Though, none of these features were as singular as his face – the very same face that Ted saw every time he looked in a mirror, except perhaps twenty years older. The streaks of grey hair were an additional clue, as was the wedding band that he noticed, with some relief, on the left ring finger of the man who stood opposite him.

'Who the hell are you?' Ted asked.

'I am you,' the intruder replied.

'You're me?'

'Yep. Seventeen years from now.'

Ted additionally noticed a steel band wrapped around the left upper arm of his counterpart, which had a on it a digital display with a red flashing countdown timer on it. He dropped his copy of Architecture Weekly on the floor.

'Okay, if this is some kind of daydream then it's an extremely clichéd one,' Ted said.

'It's not a dream. I've travelled back in time to meet you,' he replied.

'What?'

'Ted, listen to me, listen to us. To me, listen to me. Tonight, you're going to do something very stupid, cause you're lonely and depressed,' the man said.

Ted shook his head. The man looked him in the eye.

'You're going to go to Robots vs. Wrestlers on your own,' the man said.

'Yeah, well, it's Robots vs. Wrestlers: Legends actually,' Ted replied.

'My time here is limited,' the man replied in a fatherly tone.

'Sorry.'

Ted noticed that his counterpart had dark patches under his eyes, whether he was exhausted from the effects of time travel or through some other means he could not tell.

'Ted, I'm going to give you an address,' the man said.

'Whose is it?' Ted asked.

The time traveller smiled in response.

'It's hers isn't it?' Ted asked, returning the smile.

The time traveller nodded slowly, yet Ted perceived that an expression of doubt, or possibly sorrow, briefly crossed the face of his older counterpart.

'Yes, it's her place but I'm only here briefly, Ted, and I don't want you to waste any more time. So please, please try for my sake not to completely mess this up,' his future self said.

'But if you got it right the first time, then why do you need me to meet her now?' Ted asked.

'I have my reasons,' his future self replied, with a tone that brooked no argument.

Ted paused. He sat down for a moment and touched the surface of his drafting table, as if to ensure beyond all doubt that this was not a hallucination.

'And you're certain that you being here won't change the course of history or anything?' Ted asked.

'Ted, you're an architecture professor. Do you honestly think you're that important?' his future self asked.

Ted nodded, inwardly conceding that his run for president in 2032 now seemed an even more distant prospect. He stood up.

'Just don't bet on The Indians to win anything anytime soon,' his future self advised.

'Noted,' Ted replied.

'And for God's sake, try to convince Barney and his Brazilian friends to invent a time machine with a range of greater than seventeen years. I've been sitting in your apartment, our apartment, since noon cause they got the hours and minutes confused,' he added.

'Okay,' Ted said.

'And, no, this is not your typical Thursday afternoon activity at the age of fifty two,' his future self said, in a low voice.

'I never said it was,' Ted replied quickly.

'Finally, have this,' his future self said as he handed him a written note of the address he had promised. It read:

West 115th Street, Number 317, Apartment 7A

'What am I meant to do with it?' Ted asked.

'I don't know. Contrive something. Work on a plan. You're good at plans,' his future self said.

'Perhaps I should just go to her apartment and declare my undying love,' Ted said, laughing.

His future self silenced him with a withering look.

'Don't screw this up, Mosby. I'm counting on you,' the time traveller added.

The image of his future self started to flicker. Ted reached for him for a moment but before either of them could speak any further the older man had disappeared.

Ted rubbed his eyes for a moment whilst he briefly considered the probability of what he had just witnessed. Several possibilities occurred to him. One was that he had drunk too much recently. Another was that the particularly strong 'sandwich' that he and Marshall had the previous Wednesday may have affected him more adversely than he realised. The third was that he needed to contact Kevin for a psychiatric appointment.

Though, one other more dominant train of thought occupied him. That what he had just participated in was a frank conversation with his older self, who had, in fact, travelled back almost twenty years in time to talk to him.

Ted looked again at his drafting table, upon which sat a solitary ticket to Roberts vs. Wrestlers: Legends that offered him alternative entertainment for the evening.

He realised at that moment that he had nothing to lose.