Post by Dr. Martha Jones on Jan 12, 2010 14:13:14 GMT -5
"Mom," Martha moaned, wishing she was at home, or at the the very least, within jumping distance of a nice warm bed with duvet covers and more pillows than sense. Possibly Tom waiting on her, hand and foot. It's not much to ask, is it? "It's just not fair. I travel through time and space, have a megalomaniac immunologist complement me on a perfect little immune system and what happens? I get a cold, Mom," she insisted, before her mother could get a word in. "Of the common variety!" She rubbed her head on that not-really-a-headache-but-a-fine-understudy headache, which only made it slightly more sore. "I hate irony."
"Maybe you should invite That Doctor over", Francine suggested. Martha always knew whether she was talking about the alien or the fiancé when Francine used the phrase 'That Doctor'. Tom's alias from Francine was 'That Fiancé of Yours'. Neither man was in Francine's good books. "Give it to him."
"I can't do that," Martha decided finally. Her brain wasn't working properly. She wasn't tempted at all!
"What about That Fiancé of Yours?"
"He's in Africa, Mom," Martha replied, wearily. "I told you, remember?"
"Yes," Francine replied, in a tone that said that she remembers everything.
Martha sighed, she really wasn't fit for an argument, even if she wanted one. "Ireland's nice," she said.
"Is it? Good." After an awkward silence, she added: "Perhaps you should drop by a pub, have an Irish stew."
Martha nodded. That was a good idea. "Uh, yeah," she said, remembering her mother couldn't see her. "Good idea."
"Right, I'll talk to you later, sweetheart," Francine said.
"Bye, Mom." She clicked the phone shut and looked at the nearest pub next to a McDonald's and some Italian restaurant. 'Flanagan's'. Fits the bill. She headed across O'Connell's street towards that beacon of hope.
"Maybe you should invite That Doctor over", Francine suggested. Martha always knew whether she was talking about the alien or the fiancé when Francine used the phrase 'That Doctor'. Tom's alias from Francine was 'That Fiancé of Yours'. Neither man was in Francine's good books. "Give it to him."
"I can't do that," Martha decided finally. Her brain wasn't working properly. She wasn't tempted at all!
"What about That Fiancé of Yours?"
"He's in Africa, Mom," Martha replied, wearily. "I told you, remember?"
"Yes," Francine replied, in a tone that said that she remembers everything.
Martha sighed, she really wasn't fit for an argument, even if she wanted one. "Ireland's nice," she said.
"Is it? Good." After an awkward silence, she added: "Perhaps you should drop by a pub, have an Irish stew."
Martha nodded. That was a good idea. "Uh, yeah," she said, remembering her mother couldn't see her. "Good idea."
"Right, I'll talk to you later, sweetheart," Francine said.
"Bye, Mom." She clicked the phone shut and looked at the nearest pub next to a McDonald's and some Italian restaurant. 'Flanagan's'. Fits the bill. She headed across O'Connell's street towards that beacon of hope.
