Author's Notes:
I've been trying to post this on LJ but the technology is currently working against me (it's conspiracy!). So, thanks to Gee for beta reading so quickly, and as soon as this is up, I'll post it on LJ via the far more reliable method of a link.

He’s a proper legend, the Doctor. There are statues and shrines to him scattered over the universe, entire planets saved because he knew what to do. You think that no-one knows, that no-one remembers or thanks you, but that doesn’t matter. Because he doesn’t want that, he doesn’t do it for thanks or appreciation, he does it because he can, making his mark, saving people and planets all over the universe. But mostly on Earth. He told me that he was exiled from Gallifrey to Earth, that his mother was human, that he can’t stay away from this planet, especially not from England. If it were me, I’d be looking for people to save in the Maldives or Hawaii, but England seems to be the place for the Doctor, even taking into account that he keeps having to come back with me so I can see my Mum.

So I’m round Mickey’s flat one day, drinking tea without milk or sugar (how hard can it be to not run out of these things? Men!), while the Doctor’s off getting parts on some godforsaken planet he won’t let me visit and I don’t much want to. Mickey’s been following the Doctor online for months — he took over poor Clive’s website after the Autons, when I went missing for a year, just to track us and try to find me.

And one of the things he found was a whole community dedicated to the Doctor. The Doctor and me, before and after he changed. Loads of it. And this is what Mickey shows me first.

He calls me over with a chuckle and turns the monitor round to face me. “Read this,” he says with that shit-eating grin that always makes me laugh. I read the screen then read it again with my hands in front of my eyes, looking through a gap between my fingers. I can’t even bring myself to repeat it, frankly. Imagine if someone was making up stuff about your sex life and you had to read it.

Mickey’s grinning widely. “Is that what you get up to, you and him? ‘Cos I gotta tell you, Rose, that’s disgusting.” God, it’s terrible — actually, it’s not that terrible, but it basically amounts to pornography. I mean, how embarrassing. And all those amazing things we do every day and you people write about sex?

Actually, once Mickey had showed me that (I thought he was going to jump into a “You’re an internet porn star” dance, but he didn’t. Good job really — I would have been forced to throw his DVDs down the toilet) there’s enough information, true and otherwise, to build up quite a picture of what we’ve been up to if you know where to look, and you lot know where to look. There are whole websites dedicated to us, to where we’ve been seen, what we’ve done. Some of it is laughably inaccurate but a great deal of it is right: the Autons, the Slitheen, the Utah Dalek, the Day my Dad Died, the Day Nobody Died, the Sycorax. Even some of the things that didn’t happen on Earth have somehow made it in — wide of the mark mostly, but still. Goodness knows how, but if enough people are watching for you, it’s inevitable something will get out, I suppose.

What I like best — and worst — are the stories. As if the life we lead isn’t fantastic enough, there are hundreds of people wanting more, writing complete lives for us. Some of it’s great: I like the ones where I’m powerful and beautiful, but who wouldn’t? And the aliens people make up are brilliant — although there’s not much you can make up that’s any weirder than my life. Loads of them, like the ones Mickey showed me, just have us shagging our way around the universe (and what we get up to in bed in none of your business, got it?). But if I wasn’t with him, I’d be imagining it too, so I can’t say I blame you. I mean, he’s pretty damn hot, right?

So here I am, writing my very own story just for you. Only it’s not fiction, it’s important. Because there are some things that are just so wrong that they make me annoyed. And it’s not the big things — you have nothing to go on here, so how could you know? — but the little things that really get on my tits. And if I’m gonna be written about, I want some things to be right.

Firstly, tea. We love tea, me and the Doctor. So does everyone I grew up with, mainly because it’s the best drink ever. So why muck about with it? Green tea? Honey? Infusion pots? Give me a break. A normal teabag chucked in a cup, covered in boiling water for a bit, teabag out, add milk and sugar as required. This is single most important thing I hope you read. Tea’s a serious business, y’know. Ask the Doctor, he’ll tell you.

Secondly, language. Yeah yeah, citizen of the universe and all that, but I am English, I can’t help it. I always was and always will be, no matter how far I travel. And I speak like an English person (wellll, I say an English person, but... see? A bit like him too).

So, I don’t carry a purse. Well, I did but that was the thing I kept my money in. If I carried anything it would be a handbag, but what’s the point of having a fella with infinite pocket space if you have to lug your own stuff about? I’ve got my own pocket in that coat, you know.... That made me happier than when he gave me my TARDIS key. Still makes me happy. It’s the inside right one, close to one of his hearts. I think my iPod’s in there somewhere, but I’ve not found it yet. I’m sure it will appear right at the top when I really want it.

What the Doctor wears: it’s a shirt. Not a dress shirt or an Oxford shirt or a Fenlusian marching shirt — just a shirt. What he wears under that is a t-shirt. What he wears under that... well, that’s my business, thank you.

I could go on for pages, but the Doctor will be back any minute and I’m not the fastest typist. So: my Mum. I saw one story where she was a total bitch, and she’s not. She won’t take any shit but she’s strong and she’s funny and she would do anything for me. No-one slags off my mum and gets away with it. The last person who mucked her about ended up with his girlfriend in a paving slab. Just saying.

I’m probably not making myself popular right now, but I don’t care about that. There’s only one person I care about liking me and you know what? He does. But changing me, who I am, what I’m like, scares me. If you’re going to write about me, please get the basics right. If not, I may as well be a fictional character. It’s easy enough for me to forget who I am most days. It’s days like today, sitting round Mickey’s flat having a laugh, that keep me grounded — they’re as much who I am as any satellite or spaceport.

Finally — and this is something that really freaks me out — I’m not dead. I’m not living in some parallel universe (it’s impossible, the Doctor said), and I’m not separated tragically from the Doctor. Look, I’m here! Unless you know something I don’t (and how would you?) this is me, Rose Tyler, about to take off with my Doctor in the TARDIS. It’s Earth year 2006, and my Doctor and I — we’ll be flying forever.