She had needed him and he had come for her. She knew, whatever the age, whatever the place, whatever the circumstances, he would measure up to her every expectation. She leant across from her horse, put her arm around his neck and kissed him softly on the lips. She sat back again, her heart beating a little faster, a slight tinge of pink at her cheeks, holding his eyes with hers.

Assuming he had a best friend, this hypothetical friend would have been hard pressed to say anything even vaguely complimentary about Morton C. Dill, native of the state of Alabama. At school, he had been unaffectionately nicknamed ‘Dill the Pill’, a reference to his being rather hard to take. Since his school days—or, as some critics called them, ‘school daze’—Dill had not improved. On the contrary, his tendency to spout whatever came off the top of his mind (there being no deeper level to his thinking) was worse than ever. He rarely worried about having any content in his speech. He constantly intruded on others, generally in loud and obnoxious ways. Convinced that he was the life and soul of every party, he would make his way into any gathering and try to take over as quickly as possible.

The general response to his actions was usually a distinct drop in the air temperature, a general move in any direction away from him, and from time to time a proffered fist or a call for the nearest police officer. None of this did much to dampen Dill’s enthusiasm; he simply moved on and tried to ingratiate himself into some other gathering, firmly convinced that the original group merely lacked taste. The original group was extremely relieved to merely lack Dill.

For a brief second, his life was almost over; then the Dalek diarmed its gun. It was far worse for the human race to allow this fool to live on.

BORMANN: Just the Herr Doktor, Fraulein. These are serious affairs of state - men's affairs.

(Ace drew a deep breath)

ACE: Now listen, mate...

DOCTOR: Steady on, Ace. Nazism equals sexism, I'm afraid.

It was a conference call, three separate images appearing in squares on the walls, like portraits without frames. Each image stabilized at a different rate, coming in over different routes, via satellites then through Northern Global’s landlines.

The first caller was an Oriental woman. She was calling from an office. O’Hara could see some of the equipment on her desk at the edge of the image. She said nothing, not even looking up into the phone, continuing to work at something while waiting for the conference circuit to complete.

The second caller was young. Perhaps sixteen. He was dressed in a bathrobe, hair wet from a shower. He greeted O’Hara, combing his hair while he waited for the call to begin.

The third image remained a blank square of mint green. O’Hara couldn’t tell if it was the wall behind the phone or some kind of computer-generated blind. Finally a woman stepped into frame. O’Hara didn’t recognize her.

MR PEGRAM’S PHYSICIAN: Hello, can you hear me?

CHARLOTTE COBB: Um... you and the Doctor - Bit of an age gap! Isnt there?

ROSE: Bit, and we’re not that sort of couple

CHARLOTTE COBB: Right, so more of a Batman and Robin set-up is it!

ROSE: No, cos we don't sleep together...

Dr Carr pointed at her. 'You, my dear, are a shop girl. You're very used to apologising for somebody else's behaviour, and I don't think it's the Doctor's - no, you haven't known him long enough to make sense of that. I'd say it was your mother. You're an only child, and the Doctor is the most stimulating person you've ever met. You pray that you will stay at his side forever. He makes you alive. Also, I think you were perhaps courting a young gentleman, but he wasn't exactly up to scratch.'

DONNA: You're kidding. You're not telling me the TARDIS has gone.

DOCTOR: Okay.

DONNA: Where is it then?

DOCTOR: You told me not to tell you.

DONNA: Oi. Don't get clever in Latin.

DOCTOR: Ah, right. A dead body, mysterious strangers. I know how this story goes. We are about to be accused of murder.

(The Doctor and Rose talk about an asteroid named Gavin that will hit Earth in 900 years)

DOCTOR: 900 years from now Gavin will hit Uppsala. Ever been? A little city in Sweden. They have a nice bookshop there.

RUBY: Might just be me, (staring into the sleek white cup of dark steaming liquid the TARDIS console had just dispensed for her), but this coffee tastes funny.

DOCTOR: Funny? ‘D’you mean normal funny, or temporally wonky funny? You can tell the difference cos a Temporally Wonky Frappuccino leaves half of you frozen in last Tuesday.

RUBY: Normal funny, I think, I asked for a latte, but it tastes … I don’t know. Bit like … I want to say roast potatoes? Try some?

DOCTOR: Hm. Sunday roast in a cup! Classy! Could check the flavour gauges. But it’s a long climb to the sub-engines; we’d have to find a map, the vortex-sluicers haven’t been cleaned, and I like this jacket.

RUBY: You can just say you like the Sunday-Roast coffee flavour, I won’t mind.

DOCTOR: You got me.

DOCTOR: This world is uninhabited. Nobody lives here and – so far – nobody has ever lived here. There’s wildlife, yes, but nobody that could look up and say, “Look at those five stars over there. They remind me of that weird fish I saw in the river the other day.

RUBY: They don’t look anything like a fish. They look like a slipper.

DOCTOR: That’s something else that hasn’t happened before

RUBY: What?

DOCTOR: People arguing about what’s right in front of them. Next one of us will start a religion worshipping the Great Fish of the Stars and the other will declare themselves a follower of the Celestial Bedsock and, before we know it, the world’ll go to hell in a handbag