If you gave me a time machine, you might expect me to do something meaningful. Something noble. Perhaps I’d pop back and deliver a timely warning about antibiotics, or nobble Hitler before he got going. Maybe I’d whisper in Marie Curie’s ear about lab safety, or convince a young Elon Musk to take up bee-keeping. Honestly, the possibilities are endless for the morally upright, culturally aware, and heroically-inclined.

But no. I would do none of those things.

Because I am not history’s hero. I am a woman with a grudge, a strong sense of aesthetics, and several unresolved issues involving hats. I bring chaos, commentary, and occasionally, scented soap.

The first time I use the time machine, I appear in the Tudor court. Henry VIII is mid-rant—something about wives, or wars, or gout. I don’t listen. I walk up to him and slap him. Not hard enough to get executed, but firmly enough to see the disbelief bloom on his jowly face. Then I vanish. No one remembers my name, but ballads are written about the mysterious woman in sensible boots who struck the king and disappeared into thin air. Centuries later, historians will refer to it only as “The Incident.”

Afterwards, I hang around in the Tudor kitchens and teach a scullery maid how to make Yorkshire pudding properly. It’s my legacy.

My second trip lands me in a Regency milliner’s shop. There are feathers. Ribbons. Entire birds. I don’t browse—I claim. A bonnet so structurally implausible it may have its own postcode. I stroll back into 2025 wearing it like a crown. A man in Greggs dares to snigger. I raise a single eyebrow, and he apologises to me and the hat.

Later, someone on TikTok tries to copy the look. They fail. I win. The hat is immortalised in a museum as “uncategorisably iconic.”

For my third trip, I crash a 1920s house party. Jazz is playing. Everyone’s drunk on bathtub gin and self-importance. I float around the room making biting observations about stock portfolios and poor foundation coverage. When asked what I do, I say I’m from the future and here to judge. I eat five devilled eggs, critique a flapper’s hemline, and leave without saying goodbye.

Just before I go, I whisper into the ear of one wealthy heir: “Invest in cats. Not stocks. Cats.”

He does. History records him as the founder of the world’s first feline retirement village. You’re welcome.

In the Middle Ages, I arrive with a single bar of lavender soap and instantly achieve godlike status. I do not share the soap. I offer no explanations. I simply glide through villages smelling like a summer meadow while everyone else smells like wet turnip and regret. People bow. Someone offers me a goat. I graciously accept.

Later, I sell tiny chunks of the soap in exchange for ale, gossip, and aggressively large candles. I’m declared a saint. A minor one, but still.

I return to the 13th century again, this time to scribble nonsense in the margins of important documents. “Greg owes everyone sheep” appears in the Domesday Book. No one knows who Greg is. That’s the point. History students centuries later lose sleep over it.

I also sneak a limerick into a monastery scroll and sign it “Dave.” Monks are confused. Theologians argue about it for decades. I watch from the shadows with a pork pie and a satisfied smile.

And yes, I return to 2022. Not to change global events, but to stop my colleague Karen from making the tea. I intercept her at the kettle. “Milk last, Karen,” I whisper, like a caffeinated ghost. She looks confused. I vanish before she can ruin the Earl Grey. The timeline is improved.

Office morale increases by 4%. Karen mysteriously starts bringing biscuits to meetings. She doesn’t know why. She just feels it’s right.

In Victorian England, I attend a séance. Everyone holds hands. The medium asks if a spirit is with us. I answer. “Yes. And she says your wallpaper is tacky.” I knock over a candlestick for dramatic effect and vanish in a cloud of flour and stage fright. The medium gives up the trade the next day.

Before I leave, I whisper “Invest in central heating” into the ear of a nearby engineer. He nods, uncertainly. I feel good about that one.

My final journey is small, personal. I go back to 2013, to a house party where I am three proseccos deep and about to say the words “cheeky naan.” I stop myself. I look myself in the eye and gently shake my head. No one hears. But I feel the timeline shudder slightly with relief.

In that altered timeline, I leave the party with dignity intact, no curry-related shame, and a firm plan to ghost everyone I met that night. My future is quieter, but less cringe.

Would I stop a war? No. Would I rebrand historical hygiene as a capitalist opportunity? Absolutely. Would I single-handedly confuse entire eras with side-eyes, scented toiletries, and petty edits to key documents? Naturally.

I don’t use the time machine wisely. But I use it well.

And if anyone in 1427 tells you about a woman who arrived, critiqued their cloak, took their cat, and left—yes. That was me. And no, I’m not giving the cat back. She came willingly, and her name is Geraldine now.

You’ll find us in the 18th century, probably insulting wigs and drinking port behind a hedge.

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Kerry Freeman

Born and raised in Sheffield, Kerry Freeman is an unrepentant tea addict, cat enthusiast, and lifelong expert in the art of looking busy while doing the bare minimum. By day, she works as a minion in a government department (no, not one of the cute yellow ones with dungarees). By night, she brings her wicked sense of humour to untypicable.co.uk as an occasional contributor, where she fearlessly tackles life’s nonsense with sharp wit, historical references, and the occasional inappropriate joke.

Kerry has no children (by choice, obviously), but she does have a cat, which is basically the same thing but with more attitude and fewer school runs. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably find her at a historical re-enactment, enthusiastically pretending she’s living in another century—preferably one with fewer emails and better hats.

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