"Hello? Can I help you?"

"Oh, right! Yeah, sorry! Hello! I'm the Doctor."

The stranger grinned, showing white teeth and sparkling eyes as he extended his hand. Bob took it in his own, and the man, evidently called the Doctor, pumped it vigorously.

Bob felt the pasted-on, be-polite-to-customers smile he had had plastered over his face since the beginning of his shift widen into something genuine. There was something about this man that lifted his spirits.

"I was wondering-" the Doctor continued. He paused as he took from the inside pocket of his ankle-length brown jacket a pair of black spectacles. He popped them on and leaned over the counter slightly to read the name tag pinned to Bob's chest. "-Bob, do you have any vacancies here? You know, sales person, cleaner, cook? I'll do anything, me." The Doctor took off his glasses and placed them back from where they had appeared.

"I'm sorry Sir, we don't have anything at the moment. We filled the last position a few weeks ago. But if you'd like to leave me your details, we can put your name on file in case of anything arising in the future."

The Doctor's face fell slightly. "Oh, right, never mind then. It was worth a try. I'll not bother leaving my address, I don't really have one. Well, not one that gets any post. Well, not post from Earth. Right, time for plan B! Oh, Bobs! I love Bobs! They always seem so-" he paused and groped the air before him, as if grasping for a word from out of the ether. "-earthy! Do I mean earthy? Not sure. Bye then!"

The Doctor turned on his heel and walked towards the shop exit, nodding to and greeting the others in the queue behind him. Bob watched him go, watched his long jacket billow out behind him, as if it had trouble keeping up with him. Bob thought he could sympathise.

"Excuse me."

Bob, looked back towards the head of the queue. A small woman with a familiar Henrick's bag stood before him, her face stern and set. "I'd like to return this."

Bob sighed and took the bag. "Of course madam, what seems to be the problem?"

Bob didn't really hear the explanation. He was looking again for the Doctor, but he had lost sight of him.

"Any luck?" Donna Noble peered around the TARDIS door as the Doctor approached.

"Nah, they weren't hiring, apparently. Credit crunch or something I bet."

Donna tutted. "You twonk. Its 2005. The recession didn't hit till 2008."

"Well, thank you very much, Chancellor of the Exchequer."

Donna tutted again, turned into the cavernous ship interior. The Doctor followed.

"So, what's the plan now?" Donna asked.

The Doctor took off his outer jacket and threw it over one of the many coral-like columns that surged magnificently into the vast ceiling of the ship. "We wait. Till the shop closes. Then we'll do a bit of breaking and entering." He shook the sonic screwdriver, then bounded over to the central console, and began making tiny adjustments to the instruments. Donna had long ago arrived at the conclusion that these switches and levers didn't actually do anything useful, and that its was all for show. They probably weren't even connected to anything.

"I take it she'll be here?" Donna thought it was time she raised the issue.

The Doctor's hands stopped as the elephant in the room disappeared.

Donna saw him swallow, then smile. "She'd better be. If she isn't, something would've gone terribly wrong with time. Not that I'll actually see her. Or her me. That would be bad. Very bad. It would upset the causal nexus that binds the universe together and....bad stuff would happen."

"Wibley-wobbley timey-wimey?"

"Yeah that. See? You're picking things up. Soon be as clever as I am."

"God, I can hardly wait."

"Oi!"

"Oi yourself, Spaceman."

Donna joined the Doctor at the console. She put one hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The Doctor looked at it, then lifted his head to look into her eyes.

Donna said softly, "I know it must be hard for you. I'm not sure I could do it. That any human could do it. Resist that temptation to see her again."

The Doctor smiled again, but this time the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Bob gave a silent prayer of thanks as he saw the big clock over the shop floor turn 5pm and the end of his shift. Finally, he could get out of here, away from the Customer Service desk, away from the nagging customers with their stupid problems. Back home. At least he would get some peace and quiet there. Perhaps a bit too much peace.

He pushed that particular thought to the back of his mind and tried not to think about the empty flat waiting for him.

"OK Bob, you can go now," called Mr Melia, the Manager, from across the floor.

Too right I can, you stuffy little arse, Bob thought. "Right, thank you sir," was all Bob said, and did his best to raise a little smile.

He looked out of the large glass windows to the street beyond. The shoppers were thinning out now and most had began making their way home. Across the street he spied a blue box. A Police Telephone Box if he wasn't mistaken. He thought he'd seen another in an alley further down the street this morning on his way to work. Maybe they were making a come back.

He made his way to the staff room, beyond the pristine clothing floor of Henricks Department Store. He wound his way up the bare and industrial staircase to the top floor where the staff room was located, joining the throng of employees as they all proceeded to collect their belongings and make their way home. The building would be empty in ten minutes. Except for Mr Melia and the cleaners. And Wilson, of course. That man seemed to live in this building.

Bob listened to the gabble of conversation from the people around him, but no one tried to engage him in small talk. Not that Bob was sorry for that, because most of it seemed to concern inane subjects that Bob couldn't care enough about to gather interest to even feign a polite conversation; Big Brother, Hello Magazine, WAGS (whatever they were). Shallow.

As he reached the staff room, Bob went to his locker, unlocked it and began to sort through his things. There was a sharp tap on his shoulder and Bob turned ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind.

Standing before him was a young girl. Blonde, about 19 and with a wide smile that transferred to her eyes effortlessly. "Have you got your pound?" she asked.

"Sorry?"

"Your pound? You know, for the lottery?"

Bob eyes her suspiciously. "I thought Lynda collected all the lottery money?"

"She left. Got a job on a cruise liner. Singer or something. So I got the job." She held out her hand. "I don't think we've met. I haven't been here long. I'm Rose. Rose Tyler."