FITZ: Do you know? Knocking around with you is absolutely no different from hanging around with the Doctor.

IRIS: Well, we both have fantastic adventures. But he's a bit of a wuss, compared to me.

FITZ: You know, Iris. When I said being with you was the same as being with the Doctor, I was wrong.

IRIS: Oh yes, dear?

FITZ: Being with you is like being in a sodding B movie.

COMPASSION: Doctor, you're babbling at me.

DOCTOR: I am?

COMPASSION: It happens when you get nervous or overexcited. It's very distracting.

DOCTOR: Babbling? No one else has ever complained.

I remember being in San Francisco and it was New Year. I kissed a woman in a park. She was dressed in some satiny stuff and the trees were strung with fairy lights. I kissed her. Quite impulsive for me, jamming my face right into hers, feeling her relax into me. I hardly knew the woman.

I kissed her because she'd just given me back part of my memory. She had restored it to me with just an inadvertent word. I wonder if I could somehow find her again and she could tell me more?

Grace, Grace, Grace, she was called.

Then she nudged the rumpled Fitz fully awake with the toe of her stacked-heeled boot.

'Get up, Fitz We've been left on the Planet of the bloody Apes.'

Fitz groaned and feigned losing consciousness again. She took his arm and heaved him up onto his shaking legs.

'Let me die,' he groaned. 'Just let me die.'

What was madness, anyway, and who was Fitz to make definitions? She had some idea that there was a history of mental illness, as the humans called it, in Fit's past, but Compassion had never cared enough to bother finding out the details. She doubted anything about Fitz could be too interesting. He came from a culture that had only just discovered television, so how smart could he be?

Fitz swallowed hard. He was the one who was raving mad. He was in the midst of the most ridiculous danger, horse-riding down a mountainside, probably about to die and, in the final few minutes of his life, what was passing through his mind? Not the greatest, most fulfilling moments in this life - but a consideration of his chances of getting laid by Iris... and even of getting laid by the Doctor. What was it about Time Lords?

PRIVATE DOCTOR: And you don’t want any more episodes, do you?

DOCTOR: Oh, no! No more episodes for me!

Funny thing is, his private Doctor even infiltrates the dreams that he does still have and gives him words of advice there, too. Is nothing sacred? His private Doctor is an avuncular presence. A deeply lined face and a shock of silvery hair. He wears frilly shirts and bow-ties to work, his opera cloak flung on to the consultation couch. A touch of the old Empire about him. We’ll crack this little problem, Doctor. Nothing to it. Have more pills. He speaks winningly and sometimes he hypnotises his patient, spinning a kind of golden pendant in his face. He sings a sort of nursery rhyme – half familiar, terribly

exotic.

The Doctor believes he is getting his money’s worth.

He hasn’t had an episode in ages.