Now, here’s the thing about time travel.
You don’t understand time travel. There, I said it.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t understand it either. It’s entirely possible that nobody understands it. Our brains evolved in a certain set of dimensional and causal conditions and they are not equipped for extralinear abstract conceptualisation. But here’s where most time travel debates fall in a hole: The idea that you can witness an event, then travel back in time to avert the event by interfering with a contributing factor – by destroying a trumpet, for example – thus causing a paradox wherein the event never occurred for you to want to avert it … it fails to grasp a very simple premise of time as a traversable dimension.
 Indeed, down a set of ladder-stair things and into a manky old cellar.
I didn’t travel in time – or I did, but only in the classical way most things do, from the past to the future in the shoddy little leaky rowboat that is the present. For me, my personal experiential timeline started in one set of conditions, the Prism appeared, Creepy and I tried to examine it, Creepy took the cookhouse trumpet, things started falling apart, then I went on a wild chase through a deteriorating series of settings and locales in the vain hope of catching Rose with our X-ray specs, and finally smashed the trumpet and entered a more normal and stable set of conditions. I didn’t cross my own path and cancel my motivation – I went in a straight narrative line, and the universe rewrote itself around me.
At least, that’s what I think happened. It’s always hard to be sure, because – like I say – the brain of the average organic being isn’t constructed to deal with movement along extralinear axes.
What the brain is constructed to do, however, is interpret the data it’s getting from the organism’s senses and nervous system, and put together a stimulus-response playbook according to the narrative it constructs out of the various imperfect bits and pieces that arrive through the ol’ meat filters. No matter what stupendous things might be happening in the universe around us, we have no choice but to experience it all through the biological apparatus at our disposal. And that, even enhanced with our precious scientific instruments, is woefully inadequate.
I think that what I experienced when I smashed the Barnsley Yard Cookhouse Trumpet was a case of the universe putting me back into a rearranged version of itself, unable to really place me because of said rearrangement but unable to just leave me floating around as a loose end. As a result, and as a consequence of my own observing consciousness collapsing the indeterminate nature of local space-time, I slotted back into the point of least resistance, which just happened to be the cosmological coordinates of Hatboy, present day, sewer system under Prince Philip Street. This might be seen as a lucky coincidence, but least-resistance motion is one of the founding principles of physics.
It also happens to be a founding principle of being a super-sidekick.
Now that’s a coincidence.