The Thing About Buses
You know what's bad? Being hit by a bus. Now I'm not talking about any old bus. I'm talking about a proper London bus. A proper big, red double-decker London bus. A proper big, red double-decker London bus that for some reason was being flown – yes flown – by some posh, high-born, upper-class aristocrat.
Of course it's bad. It's a ten tonne bus that's flying.
Do you know why it's bad? Of course you do. It bloody hurts.
You probably want the whole story. It goes like this. Mum's nagging at me to get a "proper" job. No change there then. It's always 'You can't temp forever Donna' or 'Nobody wants a temp except for practice Donna'. Granddad is just watching me with those sad eyes he's had for the last year and a bit.
That's right. I've noticed. It's like I've died. Even mum does it and mum's ... well she's mum. There isn't exactly a word for her. Though overbearing, pushy, and a few others do spring to mind.
So anyway. It's breakfast. Mum's nagging about my temping. Granddad watching with the sad eyes. The neighbours shouting through the walls. It's a typical morning. Nobody seems concerned at all that I'm getting married the next day.
Especially not the neighbour. Not the shouting one. The elderly lady across the road whose friends with the one who should have lost her hormones long ago. So anyway. She's crippled. She has cats. Cat escapes. You can see where this is going.
Granddad is too old to chase after the cat. Mum wouldn't be caught chasing after a cat in a million years. I'm in my pyjamas. Crippled old cat lady makes puppy eyes. I'm a stupid bleedin' heart. I'm in my pyjamas, about to get married the next day, chasing after a stinking cat.
Outside. In the cold. And it's raining.
Have I mentioned I now hate cats.
So there I am. Chasing after Mr Tinkles III, since the first Mr Tinkles III drowned in a bathtub. Mr Tinkles I got hit by a stray hairdryer that had been aimed at a cheating husband and Mr Tinkles II choked on a frog. Personally I think that she should have given up on the name.
So there I am. I'm in the middle of the road. In my pyjamas, chasing a cat that isn't even mine. And this bus, that proper big, red double-decker London bus that was being flown by some posh, high-born, upper-class aristocrat comes crashing out of the sky.
I could have told her that buses weren't meant to fly. Hell, anyone could.
So I'm on the road. Bus is flying down onto the road. Bus hits me. I go flying. I'm still in my pyjamas.
It hurts.
Obviously if you're hit by a flying bus – and I'm going to have serious words with whoever made that thing fly (Who does that?) – it's very unpleasant. In fact out of the seventeen flying bus incidents (and I know that's a large number for 21st Centaury England) out of those that were hit head on like me, everyone but me died.
Guess what I do. I explode. Like golden beams and everything. Suddenly I'm not red-headed Donna Noble anymore.
I'm blonde. Really blonde. Like Marilyn Monroe blonde. I'm skinny, like a twig. I have a tan. Those pyjamas, yeah, they're now slightly too big. Memories are flying round my head. The memories that are supposed to melt my mind because there can't be a human-timelord metacrisis.
There can't be a DoctorDonna.
But there is. Because I'm not part Time Lord anymore. I died. Time Lady in me regenerates. Human in me dies. I become fully Time Lord. Oh yes. That's right.
I. Am. A. Time Lord.
The posh, high-born, upper-class aristocrat is standing over me asking questions. I'm more curious about my new body. I have no curves. Well not as much as before. But I guess I do have great legs to make up for it. The waist length hair may get annoying though, which I later learn is true.
I realize my fiancé is boring. I'm getting married the next day. I've just changed my face. No. I just changed my species. And my fiancé is boring. After all, how can I be with a book editor now? I don't need a man. I'm the DoctorDonna. I've been to Pompeii, different planets, and saved the universe.
And I'm in my pyjamas. There's some aristocratic bus driver standing over me. People are taking photos. I'm in my Pyjamas. I've realised my wedding is going to be a failure. Again. I still need to find space boy and give him a slap for taking away my memories.
Oh, and Mr Tinkles III is on my chest. His collar flashes his old name at me.
Bad Wolf.
Now isn't that wizard.
