< /TR>


Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, all I have is my Microsoft word...

Author's Note: This vignette is my version of a 'missing scene' from the episode 'Blink', in which Martha and the Doctor get stuck in 1969

It was the steam curling from underneath the door that gave Martha her first clue that all was not well in Casa Del Smith and Jones. “I swear, I can’t leave him alone for two minutes,” she sighed. “And I’m beginning to sound like my mother…kill me now.”

“Everything all right, dearie,” a voice quavered up the stairs.

“Yes, Mrs McNamara, everything’s just fine,” she called down, through gritted teeth, as she slid the key into the lock. Mrs McNamara, landlady extraordinaire, had ears like a bat and a nasty little sniff in her nose every time she looked at her bare wedding ring finger. The sob story about not being able to afford a ring hadn’t fooled the old biddy for a minute, but she had rented them the flat, nonetheless; probably because nobody else would take the dump.

The tap, tap of a walking cane resounded on the stairs and Martha hurriedly opened the door and slipped inside, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Oh, hallo, how was work? Fun, was it?”

Martha spun on her heels, the glare already fixed on her face. “Oh, yes, it was a laugh a…oh my God, what have you done?”

“What?” The Doctor blinked. “Oh, yes, mind how you go, I’m still having trouble with the frequency modulator.”

Steam wafted across the floor like a low-lying fog, its tendrils licking the walls. The kitchen table floated above it, like a shiny, white Formica island, and Martha stared at the Doctor, who sat cross-legged upon it, looking like a demented Buddha as he bowed his head over the random pile of Bakelite and wiring on his lap, completely oblivious to the carnage around him

“I thought you were going to clean, today,” Martha said eventually, recovering her voice. “I believe your exact words were 'this place is a pig sty, get me an apron'.”

“Ah.” His eyes flickered up. “Sorry about that. Still got the apron, though,” he said, gesturing at the gingham number he’d wrapped around his waist. “Came in handy…oh, and I wasn’t kidding when I said mind how you go…”

Martha felt something slide under her shoe, and took a deep gulp as she looked down. “Please tell me it isn’t some kind of weird, vortexy ectoplasm,” she said.

“Nah, just your standard unfertilised avian embryo,” he said dismissively. “Happens sometimes when you’re working with primitive circuitry…makes time a bit more wibbly than wobbly, if you know what I mean.”

Martha translated the sentence in her head. “There’s egg on the floor.”

“I just said that, didn’t I?” he said absently. “Wait…nearly there…”

Here comes the sun…
…here comes the sun…
…and I said…

“Oh, wasn’t supposed to do that, what did I - you know, I always liked that song,” the Doctor said, a goofy grin suddenly lighting up his face. “We really should pop in while we’re here; I always liked a good natter with John, and Yoko makes a mean cup of tea—”

“That radio cost ten bob,” Martha cut in sharply.

“And worth every penny,” he said with aplomb. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you a new one.”

“With what? Your nonexistent pay packet?”

The Doctor muttered under his breath, and Martha’s spluttered as she picked up the tail end of the sentence. “What did you just say?”


“Nothing, my arse, you just called me a nag!

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“Did not…besides, you were…kinda…it’s distracting.”

“Oh, I see,” Martha said, a slow, dangerous smile suddenly creeping across her face. “Well, so sorry I distracted you. Do carry on.”

The Doctor looked at her suspiciously. “This isn’t going to turn into another domestic, is it?” he asked.

“Why would you think that?” Martha bit out as she made her way to the kitchen counter.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said clinically. “Maybe it’s the funny little twitch your eyebrow’s doing.”

“You really don’t have any sense of self preservation, do you?” she said lightly as she pulled a can out of the cupboard and reached for the tin opener. “How do like your beans?”

“Well, normally I like them with a bit of toast, but I’m afraid I needed the heating element out of the toaster for the thermal regulator,” he mused. “Why?”

“Oh, you know,” Martha said, a wicked gleam shining in her eyes as she produced a desert spoon and dipped it into the can. “I just thought you’d like something to go with your eggs.”

“My egg—”

Martha smirked as the beans slid down his chin and onto his shirt, and reached for another spoonful. “Bit of advice,” she said, in a singsong voice, as the Doctor threw himself off the table and under the sea of steam. “Never, never, use the N word in the middle of a domestic.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” his voice called back, and Martha rounded the table, armed with can and spoon, as she prodded with her foot. Now, where had he gone to…

“Oh, Maaaartha.”

Martha cursed under her breath as she realised the voice came from behind her. “Let me guess,” she sighed. “Peas?”

“Naaaah, where would the fun be in that?”

“What is it, then?” A cold, wet dollop hit her squarely on the back of the neck in answer.

“Rice pudding, of course.”

Martha turned slowly and smiled sweetly at his grinning face. “You do realise this is war?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Fun, isn’t it?” Another dollop of rice pudding landed in her hair, and the Doctor laughed as the radio hissed and burst into song again.

…. Paperback wriiiiiiiter…

Martha saw it coming this time and neatly ducked as she let loose her own missile, which landed squarely in the middle of his apron. “Hah, take that!”

The Doctor pouted. “Now you’ve gone and torn it,” he complained. “Do you realise how hard it is to get beans out of gingham in 1969?”

“About as hard as getting egg out of the carpet,” she shot back. “So suck it up.”

“What? Really?” He contemplated the beans on the apron thoughtfully, and Martha took advantage of the situation by sliding across the table…unfortunately, she hadn’t reckoned on the egg lurking on the floor at the other side.


They fell into a tangled heap, the beans and the rice pudding making a gooey filler in between, and Martha couldn’t help herself; she buried her face into his shoulder and began to laugh. “We really need to get out of this place,” she eventually gasped. “I’m this close to using the broom on you.”

His arms reached around her and hugged tight. “Told you I wasn’t any good at domestics,” he murmured.