Kage Baker once observed, sometime after the 21st century descended upon us, that we were now living in Science Fiction Time.

“Writing about my own past,” she said thoughtfully, “is now writing period pieces. Unless I stick some casual weirdities in it.”

At the time she came to this conclusion, she had platinum implants in her belly, radiation-sensitive tattoos around her navel; a sensor near her heart, and a permanent drug port in her shoulder – she was pretty much cyborged, and really a far cry from her original, 50’s-born, Catholic school girl self: the model was not only no longer made, Kage herself had traded in a lot of the original parts over the years.

Yep, Science Fiction Time. That’s where we live now. My honourary grandkids Fenris and Winter ( fraternal twins – we have demi-gods in the family) are happily playing today with the stuffed tardigrades I sent them for Christmas: and they know what tardigrades are, too. Nephew Michael is practicing smithing skills on his new Tardis model, and already planning on how to customize it from his enormous stockpile of parts. Most of my friends have just upgraded their light sabres … And I myself got a string of brand new but retro-made filament-style, industrial lights to illuminate my desk space – utter steam punk and unspeakably gorgeous.

The East and West coasts have switched weather patterns, thanks to global warming – neener, neener, got your weather! Sea serpents and giant squid are hunting in the Catalina Channel. We’ve found water on Mars and solid ground on Pluto; re-usable rockets have been evolved in just the last month.

On the other hand, Kimberly is assembling the ingredients for a traditional steamed pudding. That’s a fine use of steam  technology, let me tell ya, honey.

But, considering it’s Christmas, Dear Readers, I am not writing any more tonight. For one thing, the Yorkshire puddings are mostly my responsibility, and this year I have to make them balanced on one foot … kind of Zen, really. And the Corgi will be hoping I fall over and spill milk and egg batter all over the cats so he can lick it off. Time to go off and pay proper attention to the feast.

So I’ll dispatch my greetings to you all via this ever-so-clever aetheric device, from my seat here where I never expected to be: in the future. I wish you all a Science Fiction Time Happy Christmas.

May our annual swing from perihelion to aphelion maximize all your random-choice numbers for perfect happiness, and no killer asetroids land in your backyards.