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| Fourth Doctor | |
Alias Smith and Smith by The Happy Potato [Reviews - 3]  Author's Notes: Not written for the Cliché Swap-a-thon, but inspired by it. | |
“A-ha,” muttered the Doctor. “London, 1969. Not so much a table wine as an attempt at homemade whiskey. Still, it had its moments.”
The Doctor was interrupted by the loud sound of his TARDIS dematerialising behind him. “Doctor, you did remember to lock the controls, didn’t you?” asked Romana.
“Don’t be silly, Romana. I always remember to lock the controls. I–oh. How very silly of me.”
“Don’t worry, Doctor.” Romana reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his TARDIS key. “You can use your key as a homing signal.”
“Of course! That should only take about–” The Doctor stopped to calculate how long the TARDIS would be on figurative walkabout.
“Two weeks, from our perspective,” said Romana.
“Exactly right, as always. It should–two weeks?!”
Romana nodded ruefully. “We’ll have to get a flat.”
“I’ll have to get a job!”
“Good afternoon, madam. Are you the one letting the room?”
The woman scowled disapprovingly at the Doctor and Romana. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Mrs Montgomery.”
The Doctor shook Mrs Montgomery’s hand enthusiastically. “Excellent. I’m John Smith and this is Lola.”
Mrs Montgomery carefully studied Romana over the rims of her spectacles before returning her unnerving gaze to the Doctor. “Where do you work, Mr Smith?” she asked.
“Oh, here, there, and everywhere,” replied the Doctor. “I like to think of the entire universe as my office.”
“I see. So you’re unemployed, then. What about you, Mrs Smith?”
“Please,” said Romana. “We’re not married.”
As they fled the shouting wrath of the potential landlady, the Doctor turned to Romana and muttered, “I think our cover could use some work.”
“You can say that again.”
“I think our cover could use some work.”
“Doctor, these measurements make no sense.”
“What measurements?”
“In these instructions for preparing food. The measurements aren’t decimalised. They’re not even metric.”
“Ah. What’s wrong with take-away?”
“We’ve eaten take-away the last three nights. I wanted to try something myself, but I don’t understand this measurement system.”
“Well then! You just sit back, Romana, and in a few minutes I will have prepared a feast worthy of the five-stomached god-emperor of Bovinia IV himself!”
Romana blanched. “You know, Doctor, there’s nothing wrong with take-away.”
“It’s very nice, Doctor, but why were you so eager to get here?”
“Romana, this is history in the making! The Beatles will never do another live performance!”
“I see.” Romana swayed gently in time with the music and craned her neck in an attempt to get a look at the roof.
“The police will be here soon to break it up, so enjoy it while you–shh!”
“What?”
“Did you see that?” The Doctor pointed through the large crowd that had gathered.
“See what?”
“Over there. I could have sworn I saw a Graske! Who knows what kind of damage it could do to the timestream at this point?”
“Well we can’t just stand here, then!”
The Doctor and Romana pushed their way through the crowd with hasty apologies. The Doctor finally spotted the Graske again, but it was Romana who leapt and tackled it to the ground.
“Please!” squeaked the Graske. “I only wanted autographs!”
“Romana! I want you to close your eyes, tap your heels together three times, and say, ‘There’s no place like home.’”
“Doctor, I haven’t the foggiest what you’re babbling about.”
“It’s from a film. Never mind. The TARDIS just rematerialised!”
“Then why didn’t you just say so instead of all that nonsense about tapping my heels?”
“I’ll have to show you The Wizard of Oz sometime. Come on, Romana, the universe lies open before us.”
“All right, Doctor, just let me leave a note for the landlady.”
As the Doctor opened the TARDIS door a few minutes later, he turned to Romana and said, “1969, that was the year that was. What did you think?”
“It was all right, I suppose.”
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