Calendars were useless. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd needed one. When you live inside a dimensionally transcendental time ship that can take to any planet in the universe and to any point in that planet's history, the day of the week hardly mattered. Still, out of habit perhaps, the Doctor had always kept a small monthly calendar pinned to the wall of his study for no seemingly good reason. As he gazed at it now, cup of tea in hand, he realized with a sigh that it was Monday.
What was it about Mondays? For a human, he had noticed, they did nothing but cause stress and angst, dread and depression. Mondays were the most loathsome days of any human's week it seemed, though the Doctor had never understood why.
"It's the start of a new week," someone had told him once, "Getting up after a nice relaxing weekend knowing you have a whole week of work to get through before you get to stop and sit down for a while." But why would anyone want to do that? Given the choice of sitting down and resting over going out and doing things, the Doctor would almost always choose to go out. Staying still wasn't his cup of tea, he supposed.
The Doctor sighed as he sipped his large cup of tea. He liked Mondays. Always had, always will. The thought of seven whole new days stretched out before him was exciting, not depressing, and it gave him something to strive for. As the weeks and years and centuries went by, the Doctor had always had Monday to look forward to. Just hold on till Monday, and then it'll all be new again. As little attention as he ever paid to the days of the week, he had to admit the hope Monday always brought him when he discovered the day. Maybe this week he'd do something right for a change.
"Well," said the Doctor, finishing his tea and dropping it firmly on his desk, "This is no way to start a week," He looked around his small study to try and find some inspiration for something better. He only realized it was Monday every so often, to just sit there and drink tea all day would be a waste of a good beginning. For some reason, he decided, this week needed to be fantastic, and he'd need to do something utterly incredible to start it. But what could he do?
Suddenly, the TARDIS lurched to the side, throwing him against his will into the tall bookshelf next to his bed. He sat up, perplexed as he heard the familiar sound of materialization. Was he really landing? He hadn't told his ship to land…what was going on?