Every village has _something_… some claim to fame, some haunted well, or talking duck, or field that produces unusually and suggestively shaped turnips. The village of Nether Waddle was one such. Nether Waddle had a _Wishing Tree_, the fame of which, like so many of these marvels, was confined to Nether Waddle and environs, out to the shocking distance of approximately a league in every direction.

“It’s more bark than bite,” said Jeffrey, as he and Albert trudged up the mossy slope on the edge of the village green towards the tree. They were both of an age where knees had become worryingly democratic. It seemed that these days, every decision involved at least a vote and more often than not, some form of protest.

Jeffrey, not one of life’s most interesting specimens, had a scruffy beard like a depressed badger and an entirely unnecessary walking stick of alarming rusticity that was mostly just for pointing at things and poking Albert when he got distracted by wildlife. Albert, not wishing to be left behind in the sartorial stakes, wore a cap that may once been a hat but now resembled a sulking mushroom.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” grumbled Albert, eyeing the gnarled oak with the sort of suspicion usually reserved for politicians and new kinds of yoghurt-based culinary trivia. “You remember what happened to Mad Doris, the last time anybody tried this.”

Jeffrey snorted. “She wished for ‘the voice of angels’ and got a chorus of vengeful soprano ghosts. Her own fault. Should’ve been more specific.”

The tree stood in a clearing like something that had once terrified druids into submission. Its bark was carved with centuries of hopeful graffiti: **“Mabel loves Colin (and so does Cedric)”**, **“Give peas a chance”**, **“More marmalade.”**

Jeffrey stepped forward. “Well, here we are. One wish each. Let’s not be silly about it.”

Albert crossed his arms. “You first.”

Jeffrey considered. He had thought long and hard about this moment. There were so many things he _could_ wish for: eternal youth (too noisy), riches (inconvenient to carry), or wisdom (probably overrated). But in the end, he cleared his throat and said, “I wish for things to be like they used to be. You know… before.”

The tree rustled ominously.

Albert blinked. “Before _what_?”

But the world burped. Actually, it was a bit more significant than that. More of a BELCH! really.

When it righted itself, they were standing in the same clearing… except Jeffrey’s beard was missing, Albert’s hat was whole and, truth be told, rather spiffy, and their knees no longer creaked like haunted floorboards.

They were twenty-five again.

“Oh no,” said Albert, patting his newly smooth face in horror. “Not _this_ again. You haven’t got your moustache of power yet, and I’ve still got feelings… not to mention a discombobulating amount of trouser-based turmoil. It’s a disaster.”

Jeffrey looked down at his hands. “They don’t ache! Look… I can clench a fist!”

“But we’re _young_, Jeff. Young people have _plans_ and _energy_ and … all that _romance malarkey._”

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” said Jeffrey, flexing experimentally.

Albert groaned and slapped his hand to his forehead. “You’ve forgotten the consequences. The Wishing Tree _always_ has consequences.”

There was a pause and the sky turned a violent shade of magenta. A great rumble shook the forest as, one by one, a procession of thirty-three confused badgers marched past. Wearing extremely well-fitted tartan waistcoats and bowler hats, the badgers muttered ominously about the shocking price of cheese pasties.

“What did you _do_?” cried Albert.

“Ah. Bugger. I didn’t say _which_ past!” wailed Jeffrey. “I just wished for ‘before’! It’s probably… I don’t know, probably taken us to an alternate universe. Badger Universe!”

“You _what_?”

“Well, it might?”

Albert turned back to the tree, shaking his head and muttering something about “bloody idiots… don’t know why I even talk to him… Probably not enough brain cells to talk and walk at the same time… FFS!” And so on. He squared his shoulders. “Right. My turn.”

“No, don’t! You’ll only make it worse!”

“I wish,” said Albert loudly, looking across at Jeffrey as if he were a pile of rhinoceros excrement in a flower vase, “that _none of this had ever happened_!”

The tree rustled. The sky eructed again. The badgers faded.

And…

They were old. On the hill. Again.

Jeffrey’s so-called beard was back. Albert’s knees protested. The world looked as it always had: slightly dank and disappointing.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, both having forgotten the actual reason they’d come to the tree in the first place, that information now permanently lost in labyrinthine memory cells of fading efficiency.

Eventually, Albert said, “Pub?”

Jeffrey nodded. “S’pose.”