There are many things in life one might expect to accidentally send through time: an old watch, a forgotten postcard, maybe even a rubber duck. But no one, not even the most imaginative quantum physicist, expected it to happen to a tuna mayo sandwich. Yet there it was—one perfectly ordinary lunch item, suddenly blinking in and out of existence like it had somewhere far more interesting to be.
The sandwich, having gained a strange awareness mid-teleport, decided it would make the best of its situation. One moment it was on an office desk, the next it was floating through ancient Egypt as a pharaoh stared at it with deep confusion. Before anyone could take a bite—or build a shrine—it disappeared again, landing in the middle of a futuristic robot board meeting, where the robots debated whether it was a biological threat or a cultural symbol of primitive carb-based bravery.
During one of its brief pauses in the present day, the sandwich materialised next to a laptop screen displaying Pressure washing Crawley. It stared at the page (as much as a sandwich can stare) and wondered if jet-powered cleaning devices could help stabilise its time-jumping problem. Before it could scroll, poof, gone again—this time landing on top of a garden gnome playing imaginary jazz.
Moments later, it re-appeared in a suburban kitchen beside a browser tab for Driveway Cleaning Crawley. The homeowner turned, saw a sandwich where no sandwich had been before, and immediately blamed the cat. The sandwich vanished before anyone could eat it, only to rematerialise in a medieval tavern, where a knight declared it a “bread-bound miracle” and attempted to sword-fight a slice of tomato.
Somewhere between 1984 and a timeline where giraffes wear sneakers, it briefly hovered above a tablet showing Patio Cleanign Crawley (yes, still spelled exactly like that). The sandwich wondered if the typo was a clue—a code—perhaps the key to finally staying still. It wasn’t. It disappeared again.
Then came the era of flying umbrellas, where citizens collected clouds in jars. There, the sandwich landed on a park bench next to a holographic advert for Exterior Cleaning Crawley. The locals bowed to it. Sandwich royalty, at last.
Its final known jump (according to loosely verified sandwich-tracking records) placed it on the windowsill of a solar-powered treehouse. A child inside happened to be watching a video titled Solar Panel Cleaning Crawley. The sandwich sighed—if sandwiches could sigh—realising that even across time, space, and alternate universes, humans were still just cleaning things and eating carbs.
No one knows where the sandwich is now. Some believe it settled in a timeline where lunches are never forgotten. Others say it still wanders, appearing briefly in random places, silently judging those who try to eat it.
But one thing is certain: somewhere in the cosmos, a sandwich has seen more than any of us—and it probably still smells faintly of lunchtime disappointment.