This is a story about a straight line that got interrupted. It’s a story that feels especially apt to tell around Christmas, you see, it’s this season which first started me writing fiction. I wrote not very much at school, the bare minimum in response to essay prompts, just ticking the boxes. Until one day, in an expression of the pent up anger inside me, I came out with a ten page fictional rant that confronted my English teacher with the sort of stuff I was reading at home, which involved people and places at my school itself.









The Third Doctor is the one who was exiled on Earth during the 1970s (well, it’s not necessarily the fictional 1970s, but let’s not get into the briar patch of dating those stories). He strikes me as having adapted to his new planet, a character like John Steed in The Avengers or Adam Adamant, an authority figure (he can cow civil servants by mentioning encountering their boss at the club) who’s also a cool boho dandy. When those shirts of his were originally fashionable, they were the costume of the gentry. At the time of transmission, they were the uniform of the counterculture. On Jon Pertwee, they’re both.


















