I took a long breath, letting it out slowly. It seemed to be the first time I'd been able to do anything slowly since arriving on the beach. I couldn't say I'd 'appeared' on the beach, nor could I say I'd 'woken up' there. I was quite sure there hadn't been a fizz and a sparkle of fairy dust to pre-empt Scotty beaming me down. Also, I didn't notice one of Tolkien's Great Eagles flying away having dropped me off on its way to help out Gandalf and Bilbo.

Why didn't the Grey One use the massive birds for a personal taxi? They seemed more than willing to carry the band of heroes across Middle Earth when they were in danger. Wouldn't it have been nicer for them - less feather-singeing, for example - if they just picked them up just outside the Shire and flew them over to the Dwarven stronghold? They could light a fire, roast some marshmallows, maybe have a sing-along. There would have been no trolls turning to stone or having to divert to the Elven city of Rivendell. They could have arrived fresh as daisies and twice as pretty. Instead, they only called on them when they were hanging from a falling tree. I supposed that was the equivalent of pub kicking out time. You were stumbling about, not quite with it, and the ones who'd had too much to drink were getting rowdy and pushing their luck with the bouncers. You just needed to grab the nearest cab and get home.

At least you could stop by the kebab shop on the way. I don't know if there were any roast wild boar takeaways in Middle Earth.

I was in a bed, which I may have mentioned but it bears repeating. I wasn't about to be battered by a brute for knocking his cigarette out of his hand. I wasn't narrowly escaping arrest and I was no longer sprawled on a beach covered in entrails. Down feathers filled my covering now, which was much more pleasant. The memory foam mattress my lower body was sinking into was also a preferable sensation to sand and blood.

But, much like I walked through trees and found myself in the middle of a parade, I'd exited an alleyway (in someone else's clothes) and woken up in a bed.

Yes, that's three times. Three times, hopefully, would be the charm and the source of or reason for these strange occurrences would reveal itself in a sudden fanfare of fire, brimstone and hedgehog sandwiches - although, maybe not so much fire and just a trickle of brimstone would be better. The hedgehog sandwich can stay.

No, that's not a sweet little prickly rodent slapped between a couple of rounds of bread. Can you imagine what that would do going down? Thinking about it, though, it'd have built in toothpicks to clear your teeth of any remnant morsels on the way...

Anywho. Hedgehog sandwich. Yes to the two rounds of bread, no to the animal, yes to a packet of crisps (or potato chips if you're from across the pond - any pond!). Salt and vinegar if possible. My stomach was snarling like a rabid dog. I was hungry so, if the truth were to present itself, I'd appreciate some sustenance to be the cherry topping the revelation cake. Maybe a pork pie and a latte thrown in (not literally) for good measure.

Did this have any relevance to my situation? You're damned rootin'-tootin' it did. I didn't want to find out I was the offspring of Jeff Goldblum from The Fly and can teleport, though I might need to vomit on your food before eating (I prefer salt and black pepper, personally) and risk getting swatted. Similarly, I could have done without the discovery that I was Bruce Willis, time travelling to the point I worried I might be insane and no amount of monkeys could help me. If I was going to find out anything so bizarre to explain the weird things that were happening to me, I may as well be doing it without my tummy butting in all the time with requests for food.

I took in my surroundings with a sweeping gaze. The contents of the room were so non-descript, I would have failed miserably if I were on a television quiz show and had to show them my memory prowess - swiftly brushing over my memory absence. I looked around again. Nothing had leapt out at me the first time and a second viewing brought the same reaction. The room was, basically, boring.

To my right hand side was a low table, little more than a stool - a body double for a bedside cabinet which was, likely, out partying with the thrice-read pulp magazine and alarm clock. On the stool stood a small lamp. The bulb from the lamp seemed to have joined the cabinet, magazine and clock and, as such, was absent.

A chest with four drawers in it, one not quite fitting and looking like it had been out to the same party as the bedside condiments, had come home drunk and couldn't quite fit into its slot straight, stood against the left hand wall. A tall vase with some fake sunflowers perched on its top. They were the only colour in a room which had been leeched to a sepia hue. The wardrobe on the wall opposite the end of the bed was tired. It felt as if it been standing there for decades, waiting to climb aboard a long delayed train on a journey to Furniture City. You could relax, have a spa varnish, fill your rails on designer clothing and be back all refreshed a few days later.

Curtains hung, with all the life of a hangman's noose, across the window and a bare bulb hung, equally lifeless, from the ceiling.

I pushed the quilt back and went to swing my legs over the edge of the bed. It was then I noticed I was naked.

Had she - Jasmine, wasn't it? - stripped me? She wasn't unattractive, but I'd only just met her. Wasn't a coffee and a cinema visit in order first?

I looked at my body for a long moment. So, this was what I looked like. Fairly manicured, fairly trimmed and fairly not a disappointment. I had to smile. I was looking at parts of me I'd seen all my life as if I'd never seen them before. A mole on my left leg, just above my knee. A small scar of the upper part of my right foot, just above the big toe.

My clothes (possession being nine tenths of the law) were piled neatly on the floor. I walked to them and began to dress. I would need to explore the world beyond this room and would, most likely, meet either Jasmine or any other occupants of the house. It would be best if I was fully clothed. I wouldn't want to frighten any little old ladies by having my short and curlies being short and scary.

Once I was semi-decent again - as much as I could be in someone else's attire, I dared to pull apart the curtains slightly and peek out. Sunlight blazed its way into my eyes like comet hurtling through space. I pulled back, blinking furiously. After a moment's pause, I ventured forth again. I hadn't realised, through the dreary drapes, that it was so bright outside. I was expecting a lacklustre lustre to the world. The second time I looked I was more prepared and held up my hand to shield my eyes.

I looked down to the garden first. It was long and extremely well kept. With the tepid state of the room, I expected anything else to do with the house to match. The grass should have been patchy, with yellow stains and mud pushing through like a bald spot on an aging grandad. If there was a shed, the roof would be a moss coated grey or an old corrugated (and still mostly-mossed), asbestos contaminated, covering. A path would have led from the back door down to the shed. It would have been uneven and weeds would be pushing, zombie-like, through the cracks.

What greeted me was far removed from my initial imaginings. Had elves come out in the night, armed with tiny trowels and spades and set about transforming the garden to its current glory before nipping over to the Shoemaker's? Did Santa mind them moonlighting during the long months between Christmases? Either way, sharp edges, super even cuts and almost artistic flair had been applied in measure to what could have been a forgotten wilderness.

A wavy path wound through perfectly placed shrubbery whose colours complemented each other such a way they almost blended across opposite sides of the pathway. A kidney shaped, sparkling pond seemed to brim with carp and a lawn mowed with precisely parallel lines spread between it all. There was a shed, which looked more to be the size of a summer house. The inside was in darkness, but the outside reflected the faultlessness of the garden. Its surfaces were unblemished, varnished to an even gloss and the slanted roof was moss and blemish free. A tall, slender tree stood to the side, one branch dropping down to caress the roof of the summer house. It was as if someone had photoshopped real life for some sort of organic magazine.

The gardens to either side, separated by a high wooden fence you'd have to bounce on tip-toes to see over, were more in line with what I'd originally expected. Not quite as bad, but fairly featureless and simple. Crazy paving and grass a fortnight past needing a trim. A child's swing to one side and a hammock strung between a pair of apple trees to the other. This house's garden was in complete contrast to the room I occupied, something which made me slightly uneasy.

Why would someone spend so much time on a garden (I ruled out the elves - they'd be busy making shoes and building bicycles) and so little on the inside of the house? OK, so I hadn't seen the rest of the building, which may well have been palatial compared to this bedroom, but first impressions didn't impress. As for the world beyond the door, I supposed I should leave the outside and concentrate on the inside.

At the bedroom door, I gripped the handle nervously. There could be anyone or anything on the other side - psychotic killers, glamorous grannies with bright red lipstick and off-kilter wigs, man-eating rabbits who bit your head off faster than Monty's Python. There could also be a winter landscape with trees bowing beneath the weight of the snow and a lamppost where none should be.

Was Narnia purely the domain of wardrobes and paintings of ships on a stormy sea? Would I have to push past other stolen shirts to discover snow queens and talking lions or could I enter the mythical land just by turning the door knob? With a heart beating louder than Aslan's growl, I turned and pushed.

Luckily, the door to the bathroom was the first on the left after exiting the bedroom. A wave of nausea washed over me in the wake of déjà vu kicking me between the legs as I swung the door open. A flash of another door in another building in another life - my life? - caused me to vomit into the sink. Clearly, the human body can produce puke, given time, from nothing as I was sure I'd already given my best effort at emptying the contents of my bowels through my mouth. I held onto the sides of the basin, waiting to make sure the tide had subsided and my balls had dropped back to their usual position. A mirror above the sink showed me I really need a holiday.

My hair was short, but still looked as if I'd been trying out the Doc Brown look to see if it suited me. It wasn't white, though there was grey at the temples, but it was wild. It was as if my hair couldn't quite keep up with everything happening to me and was arriving back at my head at different times, struggling to remember where it had been sitting. My five o'clock shadow was verging on midnight, the way it was darkening my chin. My eyes looked tired. Hazel, teetering between green and blue, they looked back at me. I felt, if I stared into them for long enough, I'd see a hint of who I was. My past would be there, holding out its hand, wanting to take me for a wander through my mind finally arriving at a golden chest.

I'd open the chest, heaving due to the excessive weight, and there, inside, would be me. Not the me looking in or the me on the outside of the mirror, but the me who'd become lost and needed only to be reconnected with myself for all the seconds of my life to realise I was here all along and fill me with their memories.

I stared, but my past refused to pop its head out and welcome me.

I sighed.

"Come out, come out, whoever you are," I said to my reflection.

I turned the tap to wash my mouth out and then turned myself to leave the bathroom.

"Awright?"