Doctor Who Joke

A Tehran conference that must never happen.

Portal Double Zero

Otto staggered to the toilets, as much for shelter as to answer a call of nature. Those recently reformed, sing-along baldies were coming to the end of their over-familiar set, and he was quite keen to get some respite from the persistent drizzle that had been soaking the crowd on the common pretty much since they got there.

He had left his friends and made his way to the furthest toilets he could find, feeling a little the worse for wear after a long afternoon and evening in the cold and wet listening to a lot of live music by bands that either were not really his thing, or else too blown about by the wind to really hear properly. He had got to a point where he had had enough. The Beatles could have come on with AC/DC to play a set of ABBA covers, with Tina Turner and Freddie Mercury on backing vocals, and he would still have wanted to go home.

Pulling the door on the plastic cubicle shut behind him, he got on with the half-hearted business of relieving himself. As he splashed the loo and seat in equal measure, slumped against the wall, he fixed his eyes on the logo at eye level.

“Portal Double Zero?” The words rolled around in his head, fighting for space at the front of his brain with the cider for which he had somehow justified spending half this month's salary.

Otto sighed, grateful for the quiet and absence of rain. He realised that he could not actually notice the pitter-patter on the toilet roof. He could not even hear the music any more. Had there not been an irresistible clamour for an encore? He adjusted his dress, and opened the door.

It took him a while to fully appreciate what was in front of him. He could see the field. He had a lovely view of the castle. The entertainment complex with swimming, gym and venue facilities was unmistakeable to his left. What he struggled to come to terms with was the fact that there was absolutely no trace of the Abcestival, sponsored by the school of dentistry. There was no stage, no beer tent, no girls handing out fluoride information leaflets and no throng of weather bashed party goers eagerly absorbing the latest opportunity for overpriced food and drink outlets that the council had secured for the seafront.

Otto's mind reeled, and when he stepped away from the toilet, his legs did the same. His tipsy feet were unexpectedly falling on hard, dry earth, not the sucking mud that still clung to his DMs.

It was getting dark now, and his disorientation was giving way to a mild panic. There were people walking by on the pavement and he lurched over to them, waving an arm.

“Hey!” he accosted them, “where is Abcestival?”

The kindly looking couple stopped, bemused.

“Hello,” the middle-aged woman greeted him, “are you one of our eastern European friends?”

“What? No, I came out of the toilet”. Otto turned and gestured to the small plastic box he had just vacated, only to find that it, too, had vanished.

“Can we help you?” the other middle-aged woman asked him with pity in her eyes, looking his damp form up and down.

Otto did not know what to say. He backed away. Something was clearly not right, but he did not know what. Had he passed out? Had he drunk something he really should not have? He had no idea what was going on, but he had just one over-riding instinct, and that was to go home. He made his way out onto the road. Here too, things were not as they should be. In the gathering gloom he could see that the tanks were missing from outside the war museum. He stumbled on across the common, desperately hoping that once he was safely indoors that things would somehow sort themselves out.

It took him more than half an hour to reach his flat. His key did not work in the outer door that led in from the street, and even though on some level this did not surprise him, Otto tried quite a few times before giving up. The doorbell that was supposed to connect to his first floor flat had not worked since he moved in, yet with an inexplicable tingle he found himself pushing the button anyway. With a scrape and a squeak, a young woman stuck her head out of a window above.

“Hello? Can I help you?” she called down.

“Er, yes, maybe. You see I live here”.

“Did you just move into the basement flat? You need to go round the side”.
“No,” Otto called back, “no, I live there, in number 3”.

She did not answer straight away. He could see her straining to make him out properly in the monochrome half-light. He felt self-conscious and conspicuous as he was examined by this strange silhouette that was examining him from what should have been his own lounge window.

“Do you need the Assistants?” called down the voice.

“Eh, assistance from whom?” he replied. His mind was foggy, and he felt he should get away. He had already started to turn and walk down the street.

“Wait, please!” the voice called after him. “You don't need to leave. Let us help you!”

Otto was already around the corner.

He meandered through pseudo-familiar streets, lost in a world of thought, rather than connecting properly with the world of sense experience. Without any conscious plan, he ended up in the Guildhall Square. The large TV screen was still on at this late hour, and was showing just one, still picture. A face. The female visage that was gazing down at him was very familiar, but the name written large underneath was not.

A tap on the shoulder made Otto jump.

“You've come to give thanks to Muriel?” The old man was short, hairy and wearing a yellow hi-vis jerkin with the word 'ASSISTANT' written in big capitals on the front and back.

The uncanny feeling that had been bombarding Otto's brain since he had emerged from that mysterious toilet seemed to be building to a crescendo. He recognised the woman in the picture; she was not someone he knew personally, and he had no warm feelings for her whatsoever. The very idea that he might be wanting to give thanks to her was ludicrous. This was someone that was responsible, as far as he knew, for appalling decisions affecting the lives of countless people both home and abroad. He had so much going on in his head, yet could only manage a short echo in reply.

“Muriel?” he said.

“Muriel F.C. Diamond!” The old man was beaming. Otto looked between him and the screen. He pointed up at it, and the man nodded vigorously.

“I think I might know what the 'F.C.' stands for,” Otto mused.

“Fayn Calixte,” came the reply.

“That's not what I was thinking of. All right, I give up,” said Otto, shaking his head, “where's the camera? Who's the joker, is it Gibson? I'll chin him”.

“Come, friend, let me show you how we do things here. You could do with dry clothes, and I dare say some hot food. Let's get you some shelter for the night”.

Otto was led to a small Rickshaw, and bundled into the back. Before he could adjust, his well wisher had grabbed the handles and set off at a brisk pace.

“No, wait, you don't have to carry me,” Otto tried to protest.

“ I am here to Assist you,” came the shout back, “please try and relax, this won't take long”.

Otto could not believe it when his ride brought him back to the seafront, and right to the door of the D-Day museum. Except all trace of the memorial purpose of the building had disappeared. They stopped, and Otto dismounted.

“Where are the tanks?” he asked.

“This is the Shelter”.

Without any further discussion, Otto was led through a reception area where he was met with a succession of smiles from everyone that he passed. The building had been adapted and added to since he had seen it last. But that was just last week, surely? He was taken to a storeroom, and his companion arranged for him to be fitted out with a whole new set of clothes. He was told that some were donated, and that others came through a scheme that Muriel had instigated whereby clothing stores and supermarkets would pass on unwanted end of line stock. Feeling much more comfortable as he left the changing cubicle, he found it hard to conceal his delight when he was taken to the dining hall. It was a very busy place, much like a canteen, with people queueing for food as others sat at numerous tables. The Assistant left him alone to enjoy his meal. As he sat, he was able to hear the sound of people conversing in native tongues from all over the continent. Otto was no linguist, but he was able to tell that the menus were available in a selection of different languages. This multi-cultural support service took him by surprise. He had friends that had worked in support services, but he had never known of anything of this type, or on this scale. Someone plopped into the seat beside him.

“Great, isn’t it?” Otto looked up into the smiling face of a swarthy, stubbly man in a long robe. Ever since he had emerged from the strange toilet he had met only nice, friendly people. He started give full credence to the idea that had been growing in his subconscious, the notion that he was somehow in some parallel version of his own reality.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he replied. His new dinner partner had spoken in a thick accent that Otto did not recognise, and was naturally curious about. He was not quite sure how best to bring the subject up. “You’re not local, I take it?”

This comment caused great hilarity. When the laughter subsided, and tears had been wiped away, his new friend spoke again.

“Ha! Stan is a local! Stan travelled all the way from my home country, and I have settled here, so now I am a local. I would live nowhere else. Here is beautiful. Muriel makes it so”.

That woman’s name again. She was clearly not the woman he thought he recognised, but he felt he had to try and check.

“This Muriel, she is the local M.P.?”

“Yes, or course!”

“And she didn’t vote to bomb Syria, I suppose?”

Stan looked shocked. “Let me tell you, my friend. Let me tell you! This woman was part of the human shields, she spoke out when no one else would, she gave speech after speech in the cause of justice and fair treatment for all. Every man, woman and child here owes their existence to the efforts of this champion, this saint! The clothes on your back, give thanks to Muriel. The food on your plate, give thanks to Muriel”. Stan gave Otto’s plate a little shove with his hand. “I only wish my wife and children were here for this”.

Otto felt a tightness in his heart. “They didn’t make it?” he asked quietly.

“Ha! Of course they made it, but they are staying at The Mansion tonight, all ten of them, and it’s falafel night here! They love falafel”.

Their discussion carried on well into the night. Otto heard how Muriel Diamond had brought back from America many ideas and philosophies that had radically changed her outlook and political standpoint. She had gradually wrought swathes of humanitarian changes that had impacted all over the world, but nowhere more so than in her own constituency. The thing that Stan found most emotional to describe was how she had challenged her own government over the child refugee issue, and had fought for and won them the right to be brought in their thousands to a place where there were people willing to provide shelter and resources to ensure that they were looked after. Muriel had even vacated her own luxury property, affectionately known as The Mansion, so that refugee children could be housed there and cared for.

“Can I ask, is Stan your given name?”

“No, it’s just what they call me”.

“Isn’t it a bit, well, you know, racist?”

“There are no racists here,” was his answer.

Otto was allocated a bunk in a dormitory, and he only realised how much his aching body needed to rest once he was lying down. As he stretched out, he thought deeply about what he was finding out. Everything seemed great. Compared to what he was used to, problems were being solved, positive action and kindness to others were winning out over xenophobia and selfishness. Ignorance was on the run, and it all seemed down to the efforts of one woman. In spite of this, Otto was worried. He was steeped in enough sci-fi folklore to know that there was probably a catch. Some ulterior motive that would be to the great disadvantage of most people involved. Was it his duty to try and find out? Was that why he was here?

Over the next couple of days, he did not venture far. He mingled with the other residents and absorbed all he could about how this world differed from his own, and he speculated where he could on exactly what had caused things to be different. Muriel herself was a mystery. She looked just like someone that he thought that he knew well from the media, yet of course had never met. Here, somehow, she had been given a totally different birth name, and turned out to be a complete contrast to the individual that he had made up his mind about after reading internet articles and twitter comments. Had he been wrong about that version of her? Or could two versions of the same person really be that different? Everything that he found out about Muriel Diamond informed him of her innovations and her commitment; key moments such as the way that she had sweet-talked Mr Putin into implementing his own extensive aid programme, and intercepted overladen boats en route to Lesvos using her own yacht, to help save refugees from a watery fate. He had to admire the way that she had adapted the old museum after getting the contents moved into the dockyard. Muriel had her own proud military family history, yet she managed to use that to emphasise the need for intervention and change from a modern viewpoint. There was acceptance and gratitude for old ways whilst embracing the new. Otto read articles that were eloquent and persuasive that left him in no doubt that togetherness was the only future and that dropping bombs on people would not solve any of the long term problems facing humankind.

On Thursday morning he took a stroll across the common. It was overcast and blustery, but plenty of people were out enjoying the day. A group of children were playing an expansive wide game, and as he got closer he noted there were a few adults joining in. He was almost past them when he stopped. Right in the middle, laughing and running as hard as any of them, was the woman with that face. She kept playing, but gradually became aware of the person looking at her. She turned her head a number of times as she moved around. Otto was not sure if she had looked at him directly, those deep set eyes very close to that proud nose gave the appearance of a slight squint. Eventually she detached herself from the game and got into one of the Assistants’ Rickshaws, and was taken off in the direction of the Diamond Shelter. She passed close enough to Otto for him to be sure that their eyes met. For a second, he even thought that there was a flicker of recognition. He dismissed this as fanciful, and carried on his walk. The sky was darkening ominously.

He returned in time for the evening meal, and he was intending to spend the rest of the day quietly reading. Before he had the chance to clear his plates he was tapped on the shoulder. A man in an official looking suit was behind him.

“Muriel would like to speak with you.” The matter did not seem up for debate, and the man in the suit stayed behind him until they reached an office in a part of the refurbished complex that Otto had not been to before. The door was opened for him, and he went in alone. Muriel Diamond was sat behind a desk.

“Please, sit down,” she beckoned. Otto did as he was asked. Muriel got straight to the point. “We don’t know who you are. Your identification doesn’t check out. I don’t believe for one minute that you arrived on any of the refugee transports, I think you came from much closer to home. So the question is, who are you, and where do you come from?”

Otto felt very uncomfortable. He had heard nothing but good things about this woman, but clearly she was no fool. He really did not like the way that she was looking at him. She got up and moved around to the front of the desk, and sat on it.

“Look, you’re not in any real trouble, we’ve been watching you, and you’ve done no real harm. But you have been asking a lot of questions. Things that even the dumbest person really ought to know. I want to know why?”

Otto’s discomfort grew. He got up out of his chair, and tried to back towards the door, but his sense of direction was off and he backed right up into the wall. Muriel moved towards him. She ended up almost toe to toe, and even though he knew he had no real reason to panic, he was afraid.

“OK, mystery man, let’s have it!”

And then she kissed him. He was so taken aback that he could not move or fight, until he realised that he did not have to. As suddenly as she had grabbed him, she let go, and went back behind her desk, where she grabbed a photo standing in a frame and turned it towards him. It was a picture of his own face, wearing a tan and a TV toothpaste smile.

“That’s me!” was all that he could say.

“No, it’s definitely not you. This is my Dicky, he was my rock after my husband was butchered in Turkey. Yet he was also taken from me as we carried out our last rescue mission in the Med. When I first saw you, I thought, I hoped he might have come back to me. Once I’d kissed you I was sure. You're not him”. Otto rubbed his lips and adjusted his trousers. Muriel continued, “so the question still remains: who are you?”

Otto told her everything that he could. He saw no reason to lie, or miss things out. He had no real idea what was going on either. She listened intently and asked only pertinent questions. When it came to the reason for his being there, they both speculated.

“I thought it might be something to do with the referendum?” Otto offered.

“What referendum?” Muriel genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. It turned out on this world, the referendum had been a campaign pledge that had never been followed up on. The ongoing good work to promote accord in as much of the world as possible was getting wholesale and unprecedented support from nearly everyone, which meant that it was just not an issue here.

Suddenly there was commotion outside, and an aide knocked and entered hurriedly.

“The storm’s coming ma’am. Too many people have gone down to the seafront. Could you have a word?”

“Honestly, the trouble with being brilliant is that they expect you to do everything”. She flashed Otto a self-deprecating smile, and left the room. He followed close behind.

Out on the promenade, the waves were crashing down. Black, terrible clouds had gathered, and the edges of the forecast Hurricane Madonna had arrived as promised from the Atlantic to abuse the south coast.

“Dirty foreign storm, coming over her and smashing our beaches,” Otto found himself muttering.

Muriel started talking to people individually, asking them to get back indoors, but they were not interested. It seemed that they already had agreed on the best course of action. Everyone kept pushing Muriel forward and pointing out to sea. They were shouting things at her, but the wind made it impossible for Otto to hear. After a short while it became clear what they wanted. They thought she should command the storm to retreat. These people whose lives had been saved and transformed by this woman had elevated her to the point of deification.

Muriel ended up on her own, apart from the throng, a little way down the prom from everyone else. Each crashing wave sent spray high in the air and over those gathered. The crowd had separated them, yet Muriel turned and held Otto’s gaze completely. He could tell from her countenance that she knew that any gesture would be futile, yet the weight of expectation from all these people that believed in her was too much. She raised her arms. This was her Cnut moment.

“The sea defences!” The aide at Otto’s elbow screamed. Waves were crashing with increasing ferocity, and with a terrible and audible crack the concrete under Muriel’s feet split and fractured, and in another explosion of spray, she was gone.

Chaos ensued. Staff and security arrived on the scene, residents were ushered inside, though many were not keen to go. Grieving wailers and adverse conditions made rescue efforts nigh on impossible.

Otto removed himself from the masses, but could not face going back inside. What did it all mean? Could this world endure without one of its guiding lights? An idea formed in his mind. Perhaps Dicky was not dead, just missing. Maybe he could reappear and carry on the good work that his lost partner had started. This world was much better than his, so why not stay and get in at the top?

Concentrating on his plan, he absent-mindedly reached out for the door of the portable toilet he happened upon in the car park and went inside. As soon as he saw the logo in front of him, he snapped back to the moment and dashed outside again.

He was too late. The D-Day Museum car park was back as he remembered it. He was removed from that world and its tragedy. Otto headed for home once more, readjusting with every footfall and keen to see just how his world had behaved while he was away. He glanced over his shoulder and noted the tanks were reassuringly in position.

He failed to notice the unfamiliar look-out towers on the seafront, searchlights scanning the water. Nor did he see the lights come on in front of the nearest tank, and the turret swivel. A non-registered alien had been detected and the UKIP migrant pacifier had come online.

21st Century Communications

Modern technology helps provide me with communications from others at incredible speed. So fast, it seems, that some people don't make time to think about what they're sending. Either that, or in some cases, ignorance clearly prevails.
In the last few weeks I have had to read about something being ensured (insured), someone taking procession (possession) of a property, children being required to arouse (rouse) their deaf mother in the event of a fire alarm, a notice to cease (seize) possession, the processing of a request to be abscent (absent) from a placement, and my personal favourite, a reminder to customers that paraphilia (paraphernalia - in relation to drugs) is not allowed.
I know it's impolite to point and laugh, but come on.

All Dressed Up and No Place to Write

The 29th Jan 2011 WriteOnSite Winning Entry

I don't know if it's unique to me, but I can only get inspiration to write if I'm wearing women's clothing. The excitement I get from ladies' garments is the only thing that energises me into being creative.

I've not been doing it for very long, but I realise now that I have possibly discovered my own answer to life, the universe and everything. However, it seems as though my path to spiritual fulfillment is not to be without its drawbacks.

I only dare try on my 'special outfits' when the wife is out, which is not nearly often enough. I keep an old trunk under the workbench in the garage, where I know it's safe. The last time she ventured that far into man's territory it was just to tell me my dinner was ready. And that was years ago. These days I just get a shout. If I'm lucky.

Every time she visits her mother, normally a Sunday afternoon, I now commence my new ritual. Heaving the trunk upstairs to the bedroom, I close the curtains, and spend the precious and all too brief time I have trying out different combinations. I try and make sure I have something new each time. And it was just about a month ago that I had my revelation.

I had been braver than usual. Buying women's clothes had always been as much of a challenge as wearing them without being discovered. Obtaining saucy underwear in my size was a new thing for me, and I wanted to be able to feel it in my hands and imagine how it would feel against my skin, so I mustered up the courage to visit the shops, rather than order things from the internet. The young lady in the lingerie shop had seemed far too put out that she had been asked to interrupt her texting to notice that I was taking possibly too personal an interest in the 'anniversary present' I was paying for. I guess they get all sorts. The choice was agony, but I settled on a basque and some suspenders.

That Sunday I felt like a new woman. My mind raced, and for the first time I found myself thinking of all the story ideas I'd had when I still harboured literary ambition. I started making handwritten notes, and only stopped when I noticed the time. I had barely got the trunk back in the garage when the wife got home.

This marriage of arousal and creativity gripped me like a whalebone corset. I planned to take it further, but was not quite sure how to proceed. Then opportunity presented itself perfectly. The mother-in-law fell terribly ill. How I rejoiced! This meant the wife would be going to stay for a while. This meant I could vary my routine.

I had dabbled in some creative writing recently, but always struggle for ideas. But now I was sure I could hold my own and compete.

I got hold of some make-up specially, and sat last Saturday in my underwear at the PC. The mirror on the outside of the wardrobe door caught my profile wonderfully. I was excited almost beyond the capacity of my brief underthings.

The anticipation of the possible themes set my mind racing, and the clock seemed to tick slower and slower towards half past five.

I felt truly alive, and sensual as a virginal teen. I refreshed my page at the appointed time and waited.

And waited.

The screen froze, and I became stuck hideously in the moment. My sexiness teetered on a knife edge.

Half an hour later I was a dejected middle-aged man with lipstick smeared on his face, his new dawn darkened by a faulty server.

The Jesus and Mary Chain, Brighton Dome, 23rd February, 2015.

Will bands like The Killers and Arcade Fire be touring their first album 30 years after its release? That I don’t know. What I am confident of is that Psychocandy is an album that will never go away, and an opportunity to hear it live, in all its wall of noise beauty, is not to be missed.

I played this album to death in the past, not so much recently. It is fantastic to be reminded that this short and sweet album actually consists of 14 tracks. From a band that grew a reputation for violence, drunkenness, short sets and no encores, there is an abundance of great pop built around minimal major chord arrangements; not really what you’d expect from ill-disciplined doom merchants. The thrill of the up tempo delights of songs like In a Hole, in which one is caught up instantly in the onslaught of whirling feedback,  just as important as any of the actual notes, contrasts sublimely with the gentler and more subtle aspects of songs like Just Like Honey and Sowing Seeds.

Jim Reid explained at the beginning what they would be performing: a limited set, followed by a short break, and then returning to the stage to perform Psychocandy in its entirety. And that’s exactly what we got. We were treated to some old favourites, and the pedant in me was pleased to hear Some Candy Talking, quite rightly not included in the main set, and of course Upside Down, this for me is the song that would have been least out of place on that first album. The short break was barely a couple of minutes, and then we were straight into the main event. With barely a let up from one song to the next, I suppose the experience was a bit like putting on the record, but when I listened to my cassette I was never literally moved in the way I was when the band let rip on Never Understand. The venue shook to the more powerful numbers, and an appreciative audience were willingly taken on what for many, looking at the apparent average age, must have been a nostalgic as well as immediate musical journey.

I remember being disappointed on the Darklands tour at the foyer notices telling fans that the Jesus and Mary Chain did not do encores. This gig did not have the sense of occasion that came with the Roller Coaster tour. Yet Psychocandy is such a wonderful collection of songs, done in a way that was new and exciting then, and has not really been matched for innovation and quality since, that a concert based around it cannot really go wrong. I do not think that a lot of bands would dare to end a set with a song like It’s So Hard, it does not really fit into the category of crowd pleaser or chart topper, yet in this context there is not really a choice as it is the last song on the album. Psychocandy, like all good albums, is not just a collection of good tracks, it is a listening experience, and performed so well by a band that are clearly still able to deliver, it makes for certainly one of the best gigs that I have been to. Younger bands are probably not thinking about longevity and reunion tours as they write their material, but to come back after 30 years and perform something that remains as truly wonderful as when it was first released will surely not happen too often. Perhaps the Reid brothers did get a bit lucky with the way things came about, but I was one of a grateful multitude then, and I was one of many again as I left the Brighton Dome. No, they did not do an encore, and this time I did not care.

The Doctor Who Celebrates a 50th Anniversary

Fifty years is little more than a handful of heartbeats to a Time Lord. Earth humans, with their ten fingers and ten toes, naturally embrace a decimal counting system, although they tend to lose sight of the simplicity of base ten when it comes to subdividing units of time. They also display a profound sentimentality when it comes to marking anniversaries.

Five decades may seem scant in Gallifreyan terms, but fifty years of marriage is never insignificant. This period of my life has been blessed with the mundane and the exciting in equal measure, and I have cherished both. For circumstance to thrust someone upon me in a time of direst peril was hardly out of keeping with my lifestyle. And you will feel very little surprise to learn that I had some measure of foresight regarding the identity of my future spouse. For all the rules about not knowing one’s own future, if you have travelled in time as much as I have, you cannot help but get the odd glimpse. Yet even though I had some foreshadowing of just how and when I might come to settle down again, that was as far as the spoilers went. I could never have dreamed of the fulfilment that this union would bring. The shared sense of achievement at helping to rebuild a shattered world was accomplished at the same time as building a meaningful life together.

Of course, I haven’t spent the entire last fifty years engaged in nothing but pious and doe-eyed pursuits. I may have curbed my wanderlust and endured a self-imposed exile from the vortex and even the TARDIS, but I have not been idle. My countless visits to Earth at all stages of its development have given me some insights. And I have been planning.

After all the problems that arose after my eleventh regeneration, I finally began to understand how I needed to prepare for my twelfth. As Time Lords go, I am not that old, not really. In Gallifreyan terms, my life of adventuring has seen me use up my many lives faster than a clumsy and suicidal cat. Only really in my first body did I grow properly old; since then, I am afraid to say that I have been somewhat more reckless. The sedentary life of my race typically meant that they could effectively live forever. The whole regeneration thing for them seemed just as much about relieving the monotony as it did about prolonging life. They even had the technology to give a whole new life cycle, twelve more regenerations, if they really wanted to. The way they lived their long lives, and clung stubbornly to existence, it was hardly ever deemed necessary. The Gallifreyan equivalent of cosmetic surgery was so advanced that my people could sculpt themselves new features on a whim without even resorting to the whole death and regeneration process.

All this was done so that they could continue their extended watch over time and space. And what good is being masters of time? We could explore all of history, all of the universe, but then we were expected to return home and do nothing but observe, never to interfere. They wagged their big finger at anyone who dared threaten the equilibrium of the universe as they saw it, but knowledge of the future and an ethos of non-interference turned out to be so mind crushingly dull. It was like watching the most epic of thriller films, and all the while knowing exactly what the final twist would be. It was only ever the actual exploring, the thrill of the personal experience that could possibly hold any real excitement. The immediacy of real life’s amazing denouements had to be lived, not recorded remotely. Once you have that in your blood it is impossible to go back home and be unchanged.

Right from the outset, Rassilon laid down the fundamental Laws of Time. We were only ever meant to return home at the correct relative point on our own timeline. This was, I suppose, our own Gallifreyan Mean Time. Of course, I have crossed my own timeline before, usually only with the help of the Time Lords, though they had no hand in things the last time. That was all my own doing. It was known to me since my first incarnation that this would come to pass, and when it finally did, it was a great relief.

I remembered how cantankerous my former self could be at times. I remember too, how I was often criticised for my irascibility. Yet from my unique viewpoint, if I am honest, I confess that my former self was jealous. Some of that abrasive behaviour stemmed from sheer envy at the vibrant and youthful persona of the new me. Quite immature really. Yet I absolutely needed the help of the old me to assist in convalescing after my most recent change, and help in preparing me for my last lease of life. That is not to say that I felt in my dotage, not at all. I had every intention of having a long, happy and productive last incarnation, and I had the good fortune of knowing exactly how it would all begin.

It was quite an emotional rollercoaster spending time with the grumpy old younger version of myself. So much of what we did together was naturally familiar, right up until our parting of ways. Particularly that. I found myself naturally acting out the parts I should remember, having witnessed them long ago. I relished the experiences that my fresh body could enjoy during this period that were new to me, the ones the first Doctor had not seen. And when we said our goodbyes, well, they were real tears I shed. Nostalgia and the excitement of the new collided with overwhelming emotion. I knew exactly what had been coming, and for once, I did not really know what would happen next.

Of course, that is not completely true. I had fallen in love, and was overjoyed to finally be able to settle down with my new spouse. We had been travelling in the other Doctor’s TARDIS, so without my own I was tied to Earth once again, but this time my exile was self-imposed. There was so much to do, to help rebuild as much as we could of human civilisation, on a planet scarred and diseased from alien attack. Unearthly vestiges of otherwordly intrusion were everywhere, and often still dangerous. I knew very well that life on Earth would ebb and flow into the far future, but regardless of the ups and downs that humanity had in store in years to come, this rebuilding was of real importance to my beloved, so it was important to me.

A Gallifreyan’s last regeneration is traditionally the time during which we have children. There is nothing wrong with having them earlier, but traditionalists would have us wait. Rassilon even catered for this, in his way. So it was we found ourselves trying to start a family. It took longer than might have been expected in human terms, but we got there in the end. Caring for children was a gloriously draining experience. We all travelled and settled where we were needed and concentrated on family when we could. We were quite a team. And I still found time to prepare, to get things ready for what I knew was coming.

A ravaged Earth had no need for gold. Some may have clung to what they could find, but such actions were totally misguided. Resources were the most valuable things for mankind at this time, and barter held sway. Money in its previous form became outdated, and gold was of no use for food or making anything practical. I rigged a simple device to detect gold wherever I could find it, and gradually stockpiled my own supply as we travelled the world. I did not know how much I would need, but I knew I only had until the early 23rd century to get what I could. As we moved around the ruins of Britain I accumulated as fast and as much as I could. I am not ashamed to say I stole when I had to, and the future security of the whole planet had to come before any sentimentality. The stuff was not exactly just lying around, and at a time when basic survival was by no means guaranteed, I was not averse to relieving grieving widows of their jewellery.

We moved onto the continent at a time when London was well recovered. Pestilence, and the remnants of alien infestation, was largely under control, and with a semblance of order, and naturally some help from me, the possibility of even space flight had emerged. I have never wanted to patronise the people of Earth, but what a wonderfully tenacious drive they have for survival and recovery. It is surely impossible not to love them for it. For me to provide some little help through this most difficult of times was a privilege, made so much easier by the unconditional love I received from my partner. As a couple, we had our problems while we were in Britain, both of us seemingly overcoming death itself at different times, but love did really conquer all on those occasions, the Grim Reaper included.

We went to France feeling that we needed a new challenge. The children were old enough to travel. The authorities were becoming well established at home, and we wanted to offer our help elsewhere. We became fairly nomadic, the urge in me to wander coming to the fore once again. This was made ever so much easier being in receipt of the unwavering love and support of my other half. I spent my evenings in Paris flattening and rolling what gold I had collected into the finest leaf I could manage. By the time I had steered us all the way through Asia I had a number of canisters of the finest gold dust I could produce.

My Time Lord body showed little signs of ageing over the course of our travels. As years turned into decades, the same could not be said of my soulmate. As our offspring started to look more and more like my siblings, my partner was left looking increasingly time-worn. I still only saw the person I had fallen in love with and married, but I could tell from the odd look or phrase, that this was something being felt more acutely by my beloved. It was clearly becoming a source of worry.

I had always known that I would not be able to stay and watch this beautiful human life finally wither and die. We had never discussed this explicitly, but I knew it was understood. When we reached Cairo, the children were old enough to explore on their own, and we spent long evenings hand in hand, speaking hardly a word. When my other half did talk, I was often mesmerised simply by the lovely lilt of that soft and melodic accent. I reflected on how I myself had even had a Scottish manner of speaking on more than one occasion, even trying to clumsily suppress it in one incarnation. The substance of whatever was being said to me would sometimes be lost amongst that tuneful voice, as my mind wandered around the corners of the cosmos, and back through the night air. I could find myself drifting on a solar wind buffeting hundreds of years of astounding and almost impossible reminiscences, as I sat tethered to the humble speck that is Earth by the tender grip of my one true love. It was just such an evening when the sunset was darkened prematurely by an enormous spaceship.

I had discovered some time ago the true origins of the mysterious planet Mondas. Rather than a lost twin of the Earth, it was actually a parallel version of the Earth from another dimension. Rather than search a vast universe for new human bodies to convert, the Mondas Cybermen hit upon the novel idea of shunting their whole planet sideways through realities, hoping to harvest the unsuspecting population of each new ‘sister’ planet. The Cybermen were not always truthful in their explanations of where they had come from, and accidental trips of my own to parallel universes had gradually given me the data I needed to piece together the truth of their predictable quest. These trips of mine were always something I tried to keep brief, and reverse as quickly as possible. Parallel Cybermen are one thing, but I was never keen to hang around and meet parallel Time Lords.

Cybermen do not, of course, need air to breathe, but the human captives required to produce more of their race have to respire, so their transport vessels all still need good old-fashioned life support systems. This particular ship came to rest in the shadow of the ruined Great Pyramid. I could not fathom why the Daleks would destroy such an ancient and tactically useless building, except perhaps to try and intimidate an already weakened human population. People that the Cybermen now sought to exploit even further.

Hacking into the Cybership’s teleport technology was an almost subconscious effort, and releasing as much gold dust as I had been able to muster into the ship’s atmosphere took but a moment. Cybermen of this era have improved their physiology so as to no longer be susceptible to gold in the way their predecessors were. Their systems do however retain just enough algorithms and subroutines to recognise the gold as a potential threat, and in the second it took the computers to work out that it was relatively harmless and expunge it back through their vents, I had used my sonic screwdriver to slip in the back door.

When I am dealing with situations like these I occasionally I let the excitement overtake me. An overconfident bit of posturing in front of the Cyber Controller saw me sideswiped by a drone I had thought dormant, and I was captured. No doubt I would have tripped over a root had one presented itself. I had only provided a minor annoyance so far and there was little to suggest that the Earth was in any less danger for all my efforts. After enduring insufferable taunts and boasts from a supposedly emotionless race, it was a blessed relief when the Cybership was struck a terminal blow by my reliable better half heroically crashing an old Earth rocket into it head on.

Of course, the twins had rigged a remote control device, so my wonderful, significant other simply had to watch from a safe distance as they engineered the collision. I was able to use the machine I had been plugged into to create a telepathic link to Mondas, and implant all sorts of unwelcome suggestions, not least of which was to shunt itself off sideways to another dimension as quickly as possible.

When the dust had settled, we were able to get back to relative normality. Ian and Barbara thought it was funny to tease their father about his relatively minor effort in repelling this latest invasion, and I allowed them their fun. No small part of my preparation for these events had been their education, and aptitude for decisive action in a crisis. They both very obviously have their human side dominant. This has been some great comfort to my darling in managing the unusual feelings that arise from our relationship, and will continue to be so after I have to leave them. The children do not know that this time has come, but my spouse understands, and will explain. While the children are off foraging for salvageable technology, we say our goodbyes, and part simply. We have both thought that we had lost the other before, so the emotions are not unfamiliar.

My TARDIS sits where we Doctors left it, in the tomb in the centre of the pyramid, cloaked predictably by the fully functioning software that adapts its appearance. I breathe deeply of the air on the world where I managed fifty years of marriage, and turn my back on David for the last time. I need to find somewhere new and special so that I might bring up properly the child that is yet to be born. I have made sure that this one will have a dominant Gallifreyan side. Rassilon equipped us well when he ensured that our thirteenth bodies are most likely to be female. We will travel the vortex together, I will teach it so much, and the last of the Time Lords will endure. First though we must settle, in a place where I can nurture and educate. I think I know just the place.

As a former man, I wonder, should I keep the name Susan, or continue to ask people to refer to me as The Doctor?