Mark E. Moon placed his empty pint glass on the bar, looked up at the barman and said, “So, what year have we reached?”
Around him, the bar definitely seemed to be taking on the right sort of appearance. By his expert judgement, they were now some time in early 1981, perhaps even late 1980. The clothes were definitely turning towards the post-punk, some chains and spiky hair visible amid the New Romantic frippery. The music playing on the jukebox had taken on a rawer edge, more energetic and simplistic where, just earlier, it had been slower, more melodic. To most people, he knew, the difference was negligible; it was all just some rhythmic-era music. The Beatles or Beethoven, something like that.
But nearly two thousand years of collecting had given him a good ear for the form, and th
