Cos there is nothing else happening, a couple of bits of old fic again, this time Donna related. Small and boring, but have a read if you would like....
First is prior to her return but after RB -
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Martian Boy.
He was a right skinny bastard. He put that jacket round my shoulders and it felt like I'd split the seams just by looking at it. It wasn't very warm, though. He needs a bit more meat on his bones. Not that I felt cold up there. I don't feel the cold. But no one had ever put a jacket round me before.
Bit poncey, if you ask me.
And boy, could he talk! On and on. I couldn't get a word in edgeways! I mean, I'm shy, so I didn't say much…but it was a miracle he heard a word I said he was so busy giving it large.
On and on and on.
Cheeky sod as well. Bloody Martian boy. Didn't think Martians would be so mouthy. Not in English, anyways.
He had very brown eyes. And so big. Huge...
Comes of being a bloody Martian, I suppose. They are all bug eyed, ain't they? Like ET. Except he wasn't like ET. Well, he was as irritating as ET, but he didn't look like ET. He was...taller. Thinner. A lot thinner. Good puff of wind would have had him over. He should try eating now and again on Mars. I know it's Mars and all that, but... Maybe he should have wolfed down a couple of Mars bars. Yeah, he would have liked them.
But...he showed me the beginning of time. I mean, the very, very beginning. What other bloke could do that for you? It's usually too much trouble for them to show up on time for a date, cos they got stuck in the pub talking to their mates – but show you the very beginning of the world? Yeah, like that's going to happen. They might think they can make the Earth move for you, but...
Well, no one could ever match that, could they?
Ever.
No one will ever, ever match that.
Oh...bugger.
Who'd have thought I'd miss Martian boy?
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And now onto poor Donna after she'd left again...
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Niggle.
She couldn't wait for this weekend... X factor was starting again. Lovely. That was her Saturday nights sorted for a few weeks... X factor, feet up in front of the telly, Pringles in one hand and a nice Bacardi Breezer in the other... Then up and get ready for a night out with the girls down Blazers, a kebab on the way home and a lie in on Sunday, listening to Mum moan about not helping around the house and not doing anything with her life. What did she think temping was? Easy? ‘Cos it bloody wasn't. She needed her Saturday nights with the girls. Plus Big Brother had been a right letdown this year, and X Factor was going to be her only other bright spot, watching all those losers trying to make something of their lives. Half of them looked like they came from outer space...
Oh, bugger. There it was again.
The niggle.
The feeling, somewhere in the back of her head, of something just out of reach she couldn't touch.
She'd started to get it at the oddest times. When she saw that bloody great spider run across the carpet yesterday. When she watched that Poirot bloke on telly. When she heard Star Trekkin' at Shaz's party the other weekend. Once it happened when she'd seen a blue front door she'd passed, and another time, bizarrely when she'd seen that skinny bloke from Pulp... God knows why, ‘cos she certainly didn't fancy him, that was for sure, all skin and bones. And he was a speccy four-eyes as well, she’d never gone for blokes in specs.
It was sometimes worse when she went to visit Granddad on his hill, taking him his flask and a nice sausage sarnie. She'd look through his telescope at the blackness and although she saw nothing, she'd keep looking. The niggle kept her looking, like she was expecting something. She was a right silly cow, she knew. Just blackness up there, no matter what the papers said, they just talked a flipping load of rubbish. But that niggle, that bloody niggle... She'd turned to Granddad the other night, pulling his leg about wasting his time on his bloody hill, silly old sod, 'cos there was nothing up there. And he was crying. He'd tried to hide it, but she knew he was. She'd asked him why, but he'd said that the 'wind was making my eyes water sweetheart and you're right, I am a silly sod. Nothing up there. Not anymore.' Then he'd got up and told her he wanted to dance to one of his old songs he had going on his little portable stereo, so she'd got up and boogied with him. He'd soon perked up, bless him.
Soon be home, she thought as the clocked ticked round to 5pm... She flicked through the holiday brochure that Jane had left - she'd been bragging about her honeymoon in Italy. She couldn't see why anyone would want to marry that mouthy cow, she thought she was it, all...
The niggle. And there it was again, making her stop and stare at the picture. A picture of Pompeii, people walking in the ruins, the volcano in the background. Who would want to go to a place where so many people had died, had suffered? The blackness. The choking ash, the screaming. The poor children... Why did they go to the beach, why go to the beach, instead of running right to the hills?
She shook her head.
Stupid Jane was such a show-off; her boyfriend must be a right loser, taking her there for a honeymoon. She looked at the clock - 5pm. Lovely. Home time, in the car and a stop off on the way to pick up the weekend supplies - Breezers and Pringles.
She threw the brochure onto the desk, all thoughts of Italy gone. It had been a hell of a week, they’d had her non-stop typing. There were more important things for her to think about than stupid Jane's honeymoon and her boring job... Like sour cream and chive or barbeque beef - what flavour Pringles was she going to have this week?
God, she was so looking forward to this weekend. It was going to be brilliant.
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