The Last of a Dying Breed

A woman from the Victorian period finds herself in modern London.

I sat in the quaint tea shop, sipping my black tea with milk and sugar and reflecting on my current condition.

It just so happened that I found myself one hundred and fifty years in the future, drinking surprisingly exquisite tea from an uncouth cup (made of paper of all things) and watching girls as young as ten walk past the window in skirts that not only revealed their ankles, but also exposed them up to their knees.

Peculiar how far simple decency had fallen from the grace of Londoners in under two hundred years. I took another sip of my tea and ensured my parasol remained on the chair next to me. It was an odd comfort; I’d never been particularly fond of its coloration, but its very existence reminded me that, if I were somehow to return home, I would once again be surrounded by those who understood what it meant to be proper.

George Meriwether was to blame for my unfortunate circumstances. It was he who had accompanied me here and then abandoned me to the jungles of this excessively modern and abhorrent London. That man was simply incorrigible, and yet I had once again taken it upon myself to trust him when he had requested my presence in his laboratory. I finished my tea, dismayed at the amount I had to tilt the detestable paper apparatus, and with a resigned demeaner copied those who had already left the shop and disposed of it into the large plastic bin with its “Trash” label.

I made my way to the counter and paid my tab. After I had secured my purse about my waist, I prepared my parasol and strode into the profane crowds, determined to find a way back home. 2015 is not a pleasant place for a dignified English lady.