PINK OBOE

PART 1

In an attic corridor of an English country estate, the pleasing patterns of its wallpaper proudly displaying blossoming blooms, an attractive young woman with strands of straw-coloured hair tightly tied into a bun, her slight frame attired in the white uniform of a nurse, wandered its narrow length carrying a wooden tray laden with foodstuffs; upon entering a dimly-lit bedchamber mere moments later, she at once realised to her horror that her charge had vanished. Searching beneath the brass-framed bed in an increasing state of panic, the young woman realised the sparsely-furnished room was empty; suddenly she detected the slight creaking sounds of the bare floorboards from somewhere behind her. However before she could react, a powerful palm was pressed firmly over her mouth, whilst a second seized her slender torso in a steely grip, pinning her arms at her sides; soon the struggling young woman was dragged out of the room and into the corridor...

* * *

Upon the platform of a railway, the station master, a fairly portly old fellow attired in a coal-colourer blazer resplendent with highly-polished brass buttons, head of snowy hair topped by a black peaked cap, blew on the shiny silver whistle attached with a cord about a bull neck whilst waving a white flag; soon an awaiting steam train pulled away with a puff of smoke. As the old man disappeared into the ticket office, an unusual sound descended upon the empty platform; a sound not unlike that of a toilet flushing itself several times in swift succession.

All at once, a tall, rectangular blue box in the shape of a plastic portaloo of the type frequently found within festival fields and construction sites slowly materialised upon the platform; the Astrid, the often unreliable Type-20 time and space travelling craft belonging to the mysterious wanderer known only as the Doctor, its permanently out of place appearance a constant reminder of the faulty camouflage unit designed to keep the curious at bay by blending in with its background.

Emerging from the Astrid, the self-imposed exile of the planet Fallico, home to his people the Chronolords, ran gnarled fingers through thick grizzled locks brushed back from deeply furrowed brow, a smile slowly spreading across heavily-lined features. He had the jowled, hangdog expression; tired, saggy old eyes and impish leer of one who should perhaps be enjoying their advancing years in peaceful retirement rather than gallivanting throughout the galaxy from one misadventure to the next; however the Doctor was far more ancient than the casual observer could ever possibly imagine, having lived for no less than 900 years. Clad in a warm, woollen cardigan the colour of claret, with cream, cotton, open-necked shirt, the Chronolord's attire was completed by a pair of charcoal trousers and comfortable crimson carpet slippers.

"Love a duck, Doc - where the bleedin' 'ell are we this time?" groaned a small, slender, bubbly, busty 18 year-old, popping her head out of the Astrid's external door; bottle blonde locks framing mischievous elfin features and enchanting, cognac-coloured eyes; clad in a figure-hugging T-shirt emblazoned with the Union flag of the United Kingdom, blue denim miniskirt and a pair of trendy white Adinuf trainers.

"A railway station by the looks, Honey!" replied the Doctor, peering about the platform.

Honey Sucks had joined the Doctor on his travels through time and space many months earlier, the chirpy cockney chav mistaking the Astrid for a public convenience upon the streets of her East End estate before assisting the old man in thwarting the threat posed by the Slythereens, a species of alien invaders attempting to seize control of the capital disguised as a party of politicians; possibly the perfect disguise for beings from another planet, fooling a large percentage of the population in the process.

"So 'oo was the ol' geezer, the Fat Controller?" enquired Honey, emerging onto the platform.

"The station master, most likely!" corrected the Chronolord, "Well, at least we won't have to worry about being caught without a platform ticket in this era - according to the instrument banks, it's nineteen twenty-five!"