Join the Time Police, they said. It's a cushy life, they said, in the Women's Auxiliary of the Xenochronometry Division of the Standards Inspectorate. Snappy uniform, they said, government pension and nothing more laborious to do than fill out the occasional B11 Notification of Noncompliant Measurement Units (Revised).

Yeah, right.

Because since breakfast you've been shot at twice, erased from history six times, trapped in five temporal paradoxes and narrowly avoided having sex with your own grandfather. And it's still only glargle past threep. Again.