The pipes are broken again. You mutter under your breath as you shove the soggy batch of articles into the trash. That's only a week's work to be rewritten. Last time, the plumbing failure was compounded by a leaky roof. But it's what you can afford on a journalist's salary.

Someday, Sarah, you'll get beyond these local pieces and see the world, your editor kept saying. You have talent, you'll go far.

But it wasn't talent that took you on the most amazing trip ever. You saw supernovas and exploding stars, galactic battles and spaceships. You've seen the Earth from space–a view you thought only the American astronauts would ever have.

It's so hard to work up enthusiasm for yet another football match or fashion statement. You're always on the lookout for that blue box, flipping through countless editions of tabloids in hopes of finding someone else who would understand this nagging ordinariness of life after the TARDIS.

The doorbell rings. That would be the repairman, actually on time for once.