"I was angry with my friend; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe; I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I sunned it with smiles, and with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, 'til it bore an apple bright..."

I paused, the last bit sounded wrong. It was entirely possible there was another verse.

"Something-something - And into my garden stole, when the night had veiled the pole; in the morning glad I see," I treated the last line with particular venom, "my foe outstretched beneath the tree."

I was aware that passers-by were walking all the faster on account of my angry mutterings and that suited me fine. I smiled wickedly and directed the smile, for lack of a better target, at a lady walking her dog. The dog whined at me and the lady fled with a justifiably startled look.

I walked slowly, only quickening my pace as I crossed the road. (Even in my current mood I had no wish to be run over.) I looked up at the sky; it was overcast and harshly lit by the struggling rays of a dull and setting sun. Gods, it was beautiful. If I was really lucky, it might even rain...

I smiled lop-sidedly at the thought; my feet would get very wet. Leaving the house in a foul temper after yet another 'disagreement' with my parents, I hadn't paid attention to my lack of shoes and socks until the gravel of the drive was digging into my soles. Besides, it would somewhat spoil the dramatics of the situation if I returned, grabbed my boots, and stomped out again. I hadn't got my coat either, although I did have a scarf draped around my neck and house keys in my pocket, so at least I wouldn't have to ring on the doorbell when I wanted to get back in.

It was a Friday evening; I had too much work and too little social life, not to mention a worried father, a distraught mother and an annoying younger sister. Life couldn't be better.

It had been the sort of drama that has played out a thousand thousand times before in a thousand thousand homes across the world. A long and disappointing day, a simmering resentment towards everybody; a word or two taken the wrong way, a raised voice, a smart retort... And all of a sudden there's the choice of a hurtful, pointless argument or of walking away without a word. I – you may have guessed – have always preferred the latter. So there I was.

I hadn't been paying much attention to where I was walking and I looked up to see I was at a row of somewhat odd shops at the traffic lights just before the Green. Antique shops, a newsagent's, a craft shop and a bookshop. With nothing more enticing in view, I wandered in the direction of the bookshop. It was small and cluttered, selling second-hand, leather-bound first editions. It was closed. I peered at the door.

Lloyd's of Kew.

Books.

Open Tues. to Sat. 2 to 6.

Well, that solved that one, no solace in browsing for me.

I was at the edge of Cambridge Road, or so the crumbling tile sign attached to one of the houses told me. It was residential, with rows of beautifully elegant Victorian houses, all in good repair. There was a tiny church halfway down: I strode in that direction, not out of any religious urge, but because I have always considered holy ground of any religion to be an excellent place to think.

There is something peaceful about an empty church - something pleasing too, since I studied art and appreciated the architecture. It was only when standing in front of it that I realised it wasn't a church - it was now a house. I smiled despite my disappointment. A church-house; brilliant! I had always wanted to live somewhere original, and here in front of me, an old church small enough to be a house situated down a quiet road near a bookshop. What more did I need? (Besides a cool two mil – cash – to buy it outright from its current owners, of course.)

I scowled fiercely and then stopped, since that made things worse. I felt as if I had just been hit over the back of the head – that is to say, the pain, the confusion and the resentment.

My sight was blurring, I felt sick, and I could hear a high monotone whining in my ears. I sat down, trying to work out what was wrong. The pain intensified in one agonising rush and I cradled my head in my hands, eyes shut, wondering if this was what a brain aneurism felt like. Somewhere in my skull my thoughts were scattering like panicked sheep, jibbering 'You're gonna die! You're gonna die!' in an unending and unhelpful mantra.

The agony lessened, as did the hiss of my own blood thrumming in my ears. I blinked and looked around carefully, deciding I would go home, argument or no, before I passed out in the gutter.

It was then I noticed that things were wrong. (Not a 'I was haemoraging on the pavement' sort of wrong. Disgusting and terminal as that may have been, at least given the past five minutes it would have been understandable... This however, was not.)

Cambridge Road seemed to have widened into a thoroughfare containing many people and taller more imposing buildings – the little street had suddenly grown up – I didn't approve. There was noise and a sense of movement and bustling about me. The air was colder; foggy and choking. I was sitting on a curb and behind me were the oddly flickering lights of Baker Street Metropolitan Line station. I stood up, trying to remember the way to Siân's house in Balcombe Street and wondering hazily how and why I was in Northwest London. We had often wished for the ability to teleport in order to cut out tedious hours of travel; but now I appeared to have the knack I was more alarmed than pleased. I walked uncertainly up Baker Street, feeling progressively worse.

The further I got, the more I noticed was wrong. There were no cars. There were horses and cobblestones. People didn't seem to be wearing the right clothes and the air had a bite to it of mud, coal fumes and horse shit.

In the words of Joseph Heller, "Nothing made sense and neither did everything else." Not to mention the fact that large black spots were bubbling before my eyes and I had a feeling I was about to faint - something I had never done before and was loathe to start now.

Come on, come on, I tried to counsel myself. A little further, turn towards the gardens and you're almost at Balcombe Street. Siân will brew tea, stuff you with biscuits and ensure you don't die and the world doesn't freak out. It will be fine. But you have to get there first. Come on...

My mental pep talk was doing wonders for my determination, but couldn't bolster my stamina. I could see next to nothing beyond the static that filled my head and my hands and feet were becoming vague and disconnected; sluggish in obeying commands and weak in execution.

Damn blast shit and hell – I really was about to faint. I could fall over (and make a scene – in public!) or I could ask for help (of a stranger – how presumptuous!). Tight-laced English reserve balked at either, but I decided asking for aid was less embarrassing than braining myself on a muddy pavement.

Four steps more: I all but ricocheted off the nearest front door, grabbing the knocker and lintel to keep my feet from desertion. I managed to yank the bell-pull before discovering, with irritation, that the world had suddenly gone very dark.