Useless Uvula
Words: 301
There was a mirror in the hallway outside the kitchen, with a little table under it. The Doctor liked putting various gadgets and vegetation there, but Donna had started monitoring his table use after he'd accidentally released a hoard of adult alligators onto it and they'd gotten lost in the TARDIS. It was at this table, however much in secret, that the Doctor checked his hair every few Gallifreyan hours.
He was usually there when Donna went down to breakfast—eight in the morning in Earth hours—which she called Point 0 Gallifreyan. He'd stop when she went into the kitchen itself and follow her, but today, Donna entered it alone. With a frown, she turned back, but the Doctor was still at the mirror.
"Doctor?" she ventured.
"Ohnna!" he exclaimed. "Ouh're ha 'uhan! Whah's a huhula hor?"
"Um . . . if you enunciate?"
"Right," the Doctor closed his mouth and face her. "What's a uvula for?"
"A uvula?" she echoed.
"Yup, you know the little skin flap that hangs at the back of your throat," he mined hanging with his hand before opening his mouth and pointing to said uvula. "Never hand one before. Tried poking it, but"—Donna winced—"yeah."
"It triggers your gag reflex. You use it to speak French, too, but that's all I know," the Doctor looked mildly disappointed, so she offered, "It's part of you, innit? A keg in the machine, if you will. It makes you whole, and without it you'd be different and wrong."
He beamed.
"Now, come on, there's food to be had. And wash your hands, you were poking around in there for who knows how long."
Touched, the Doctor entered the kitchen after her, saying, "You're like a uvula, Donna, you know. My uvula. Keep me going, you do."