Cat and the Time Travelling Vespa — Part 1

It was 1984, and Cat Rossi was the queen of her street.

She wore her silver lamé jumpsuit like a badge of rebellion, her dark hair feathered to perfection under a white scooter helmet emblazoned with a target logo. Her pride and joy — a cherry-red 1960 Vespa GS160 — had been rebuilt from scrap, with chrome wing mirrors fanned like peacock feathers and a radio wedged between the handlebars blasting The Jam’s “A Town Called Malice.”

Her mates called her “Cat on the Vespa” because you could hear her coming before you saw her — a blur of Motown, punk, and Italian steel.

But the Vespa wasn’t just any scooter. There was something… strange about it.

One muggy London night, Cat was riding home from a secret soul night in Camden. She’d scored an original Small Faces pin from a bloke in a parka who swore Steve Marriott had touched it once. Buzzing from music, nicotine and speed (the scooter’s throttle, mostly), she veered off the main road and took the long way round via an alley off Portobello.

The engine growled.

The radio hissed.

Then it happened.

A flash. A noise like the feedback from a bass amp. Everything blurred — headlights stretched into comet trails — and the air smelled of petrol, ozone, and Brylcreem.

When the light faded, Cat sat stunned, her Vespa gently humming beneath her.