Distractedly resetting my clock,

I had something of a shock

when I saw that I’d wound 

the hands around

three hundred and eight-five thousand times,

and I accidentally found 

myself in 2059.

Things were much the same as 2015

except that Cheryl was queen,

mobile phones 

were the size of mobile homes,

people drove around

in Michael Bublé cars,

and Firth and Farrell

had colinised Mars.