I woke up mostly naked in front of the Platform 9 3/4 tourist spot at King’s Cross Station in London, England. I say “mostly” naked because for for some lucky reason, having to do with public decency no doubt, I still wore my blue “I Never Smurf and Tell” boxer shorts from yesterday.

I drew in a deep breath to clear the cobwebs. Suddenly, something smacked me on the head. I whirled in time to see an elderly woman, weilding an umbrella, who shouted at me in a northern accent, “Yeh shud be ashamed of yerself, Jimmy! The nerve!” Then she whacked me again.

As I backed away from Grandmother to avoid the blow, I bumped into a well dressed lady of quality, carrying packages. Down she fell with an unladylike screech. I lost my balance and fell squarely on top of her.

An alert copper blew his whistle. I lept to my feet and looked desperately to escape. The train next to me started to move, I scrambled aboard, finding an empty seat next to a beautiful young woman.

And that, my son, is how I met your mother.