All the Seconds Are Wrong
A retired watchmaker's quiet morning coffee is disrupted by flickering realities and a newspaper from tomorrow, forcing him to question the very fabric of time in his favourite café.
INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY
A warm, mundane space. Worn wooden tables, the gentle hiss of an espresso machine. The air smells of coffee and faintly of burnt milk.
JOHN (70s), a man with the meticulous calm of a watchmaker, stares at a cheap plastic WALL CLOCK.
CLOSE ON - THE WALL CLOCK
The second hand stutters. Freezes for a beat. Jumps forward two seconds to catch up. A mechanical impossibility for a quartz movement.
BACK TO SCENE
John glances down at his own wrist. A perfectly calibrated, vintage mechanical timepiece. He runs a thumb over its crystal, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
Across the room, LINDA (ageless, 60s), the proprietor, polishes a glass behind the counter. She catches his eye. She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not a greeting. An acknowledgement.
Through the large plate-glass window, a sleek, modern TRAM glides past on the street.
Then, a FLICKER.
For a single, seamless beat, the world outside the window shifts.
The modern tram is replaced by a lumbering, bottle-green and cream DOUBLE-DECKER TRAM from the 1950s. SPARKS fly from its pantograph hitting the overhead wires.
On the pavement, a young woman in neon leggings staring at her phone is gone. In her place stands a MAN IN A TRILBY and a heavy wool overcoat, reading a broadsheet newspaper.
SOUND of a distant coal smoke whistle, faint and ghostly.
And just as quickly, it’s gone. The modern tram continues on its way. The young woman is back.
John blinks, shaking his head slightly. A trick of the light. It had to be. But he can almost still smell the coal smoke.
TERRY (70s), a man built for tweed and cynicism, slumps into the chair opposite John, dropping a damp copy of *The Guardian* on the table.
TERRY
> Daydreaming about winding the town hall clock again, John?
JOHN
> (Quietly)
> Something like that. Did you… see the tram just now?
TERRY
> The 9:15 to Piccadilly? Yes, I saw it. Managed to avoid walking in front of it, which I count as a victory for a Tuesday morning. Why?
Terry flags down Linda.
TERRY
> (To Linda)
> The usual, love. And a slice of that lemon drizzle before this old fossil inhales it all.
JOHN
> (Leaning forward)
> It looked old. Proper 1950s job. All green and clunky.
Terry lets out a theatrical, world-weary sigh.
TERRY
> You’ve been staring at tiny gears for fifty years, mate. Your eyes are probably stuck in the past. It’s a miracle you can even see the tables in front of you.
He unfolds his paper, then pauses. A frown.
TERRY
> That’s odd.
Linda arrives with a coffee and a slice of cake, placing them on the table with a steady hand. Her eyes are on John.
LINDA
> What’s odd, Terry?
TERRY
> (Muttering, tapping the paper)
> This paper. It’s for Wednesday. Tomorrow.
John snatches the paper. Terry is right.
CLOSE ON - THE NEWSPAPER
The masthead is clear: WEDNESDAY, 24TH OCTOBER. Headlines read: ‘Council Approves Controversial High-Rise Development’ and ‘City Suffers Record Power Outage.’
BACK TO SCENE
A cold knot forms in John’s stomach.
JOHN
> (Voice tight)
> Where did you get this?
TERRY
> Newsagent next door. Same as every day.
> (Takes a bite of cake)
> Well, I know not to bet on the 3:30 at Haydock, then. Little Minx falls at the last hurdle.
JOHN
> You’re not taking this seriously!
TERRY
> John, it’s a misprint. A screw-up at the press. Happens all the time. Besides, a power outage is hardly a Nostradamus-level prediction for this city.
JOHN
> And the tram?
TERRY
> A brain fart, Johnny. A senior moment. Don’t worry, you’ve got a few good years before they stick you in a home where all the clocks are digital.
Linda wipes down an adjacent table, her movements slow, deliberate. She doesn’t look at them as she speaks.
LINDA
> Time is a funny thing. People think it’s a straight line. A motorway. But sometimes… it’s more like the backstreets of the Northern Quarter. Full of wrong turns and cul-de-sacs.
John stares at her. She knows. Of course she knows.
JOHN
> What is this place, Linda?
She offers a simple shrug, finally turning to him.
LINDA
> A coffee shop. We sell coffee. And cake.
SOUND: A small BELL over the door chimes.
Linda looks towards the door.
LINDA
> And welcome all sorts.
A YOUNG MAN (20s) stands in the doorway. He wears a faded, ill-fitting DEMOB SUIT from the post-war era. The shoulders are too wide, the trousers too short.
His eyes are wide with utter bewilderment. He scans the room—the chrome coffee machine, the students on laptops, the soft indie music—like a man who has wandered into a different century.
He approaches their table, his hands nervously twisting the brim of a non-existent hat. His face is pale. He looks at John, his eyes pleading for an anchor.
YOUNG MAN
> (A pure, uncut 1940s accent)
> Excuse me, guv’nor. I’m a bit lost. Could you… could you tell me the year?
John stares, the newspaper from tomorrow clutched in his hand. His perfectly calibrated world has just shattered.
A warm, mundane space. Worn wooden tables, the gentle hiss of an espresso machine. The air smells of coffee and faintly of burnt milk.
JOHN (70s), a man with the meticulous calm of a watchmaker, stares at a cheap plastic WALL CLOCK.
CLOSE ON - THE WALL CLOCK
The second hand stutters. Freezes for a beat. Jumps forward two seconds to catch up. A mechanical impossibility for a quartz movement.
BACK TO SCENE
John glances down at his own wrist. A perfectly calibrated, vintage mechanical timepiece. He runs a thumb over its crystal, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
Across the room, LINDA (ageless, 60s), the proprietor, polishes a glass behind the counter. She catches his eye. She gives a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not a greeting. An acknowledgement.
Through the large plate-glass window, a sleek, modern TRAM glides past on the street.
Then, a FLICKER.
For a single, seamless beat, the world outside the window shifts.
The modern tram is replaced by a lumbering, bottle-green and cream DOUBLE-DECKER TRAM from the 1950s. SPARKS fly from its pantograph hitting the overhead wires.
On the pavement, a young woman in neon leggings staring at her phone is gone. In her place stands a MAN IN A TRILBY and a heavy wool overcoat, reading a broadsheet newspaper.
SOUND of a distant coal smoke whistle, faint and ghostly.
And just as quickly, it’s gone. The modern tram continues on its way. The young woman is back.
John blinks, shaking his head slightly. A trick of the light. It had to be. But he can almost still smell the coal smoke.
TERRY (70s), a man built for tweed and cynicism, slumps into the chair opposite John, dropping a damp copy of *The Guardian* on the table.
TERRY
> Daydreaming about winding the town hall clock again, John?
JOHN
> (Quietly)
> Something like that. Did you… see the tram just now?
TERRY
> The 9:15 to Piccadilly? Yes, I saw it. Managed to avoid walking in front of it, which I count as a victory for a Tuesday morning. Why?
Terry flags down Linda.
TERRY
> (To Linda)
> The usual, love. And a slice of that lemon drizzle before this old fossil inhales it all.
JOHN
> (Leaning forward)
> It looked old. Proper 1950s job. All green and clunky.
Terry lets out a theatrical, world-weary sigh.
TERRY
> You’ve been staring at tiny gears for fifty years, mate. Your eyes are probably stuck in the past. It’s a miracle you can even see the tables in front of you.
He unfolds his paper, then pauses. A frown.
TERRY
> That’s odd.
Linda arrives with a coffee and a slice of cake, placing them on the table with a steady hand. Her eyes are on John.
LINDA
> What’s odd, Terry?
TERRY
> (Muttering, tapping the paper)
> This paper. It’s for Wednesday. Tomorrow.
John snatches the paper. Terry is right.
CLOSE ON - THE NEWSPAPER
The masthead is clear: WEDNESDAY, 24TH OCTOBER. Headlines read: ‘Council Approves Controversial High-Rise Development’ and ‘City Suffers Record Power Outage.’
BACK TO SCENE
A cold knot forms in John’s stomach.
JOHN
> (Voice tight)
> Where did you get this?
TERRY
> Newsagent next door. Same as every day.
> (Takes a bite of cake)
> Well, I know not to bet on the 3:30 at Haydock, then. Little Minx falls at the last hurdle.
JOHN
> You’re not taking this seriously!
TERRY
> John, it’s a misprint. A screw-up at the press. Happens all the time. Besides, a power outage is hardly a Nostradamus-level prediction for this city.
JOHN
> And the tram?
TERRY
> A brain fart, Johnny. A senior moment. Don’t worry, you’ve got a few good years before they stick you in a home where all the clocks are digital.
Linda wipes down an adjacent table, her movements slow, deliberate. She doesn’t look at them as she speaks.
LINDA
> Time is a funny thing. People think it’s a straight line. A motorway. But sometimes… it’s more like the backstreets of the Northern Quarter. Full of wrong turns and cul-de-sacs.
John stares at her. She knows. Of course she knows.
JOHN
> What is this place, Linda?
She offers a simple shrug, finally turning to him.
LINDA
> A coffee shop. We sell coffee. And cake.
SOUND: A small BELL over the door chimes.
Linda looks towards the door.
LINDA
> And welcome all sorts.
A YOUNG MAN (20s) stands in the doorway. He wears a faded, ill-fitting DEMOB SUIT from the post-war era. The shoulders are too wide, the trousers too short.
His eyes are wide with utter bewilderment. He scans the room—the chrome coffee machine, the students on laptops, the soft indie music—like a man who has wandered into a different century.
He approaches their table, his hands nervously twisting the brim of a non-existent hat. His face is pale. He looks at John, his eyes pleading for an anchor.
YOUNG MAN
> (A pure, uncut 1940s accent)
> Excuse me, guv’nor. I’m a bit lost. Could you… could you tell me the year?
John stares, the newspaper from tomorrow clutched in his hand. His perfectly calibrated world has just shattered.