BRYONY FOUND HERSELF IN a slim line corridor. The blank walls, floor and ceiling were so perfectly white that their effect was slightly disorientating – as if she were walking along on nothing.

Apparently in response, the passageway mellowed to a deeper shade of cream and the lighting dropped to something that would suit a seedy nightclub with an interest in concealing nasty stains. ‘Steady. I mean, thanks. But I do need to see where I’m going. Still, thank you, TARDIS.’ The light levels rose again, but maintained a slightly orange glow which seemed more welcoming and gentle. Large circular indentations appeared in the walls, which made all the perfect whiteness less disorientating.

As she progressed, a doorway became apparent to her left, very much as if the wall had decided to provide one. Beyond it was a large kitchen of the sort a sizeable hotel might require – a sizeable hotel carved out of not-really-walnut. There were long work surfaces, banks of what seemed to be ovens and several square plaques of some goldenish marble-like material which Bryony guessed might act as stove tops. Brass hand rails were much in evidence. As were the kind of copper pans that no one used anymore.

Not that it looked as if anyone had been using these – they seemed brand new, hanging from their racks. Ranks of cupboards – some refrigerated and some heated – offered up their contents for Bryony’s inspection: boxes, bags, bottles, cans, cartons, sacks, barrels, crates, jars – even some amphorae set into neat little metal stands – containing who knew what. Some of the containers were labelled, usually with what appeared to be outlandish script, or unfamiliar symbols – but when she looked directly at them, the jumbles of meaningless shapes resolved themselves into readable – if still pretty meaningless – words and phrases. Bryony read out, ‘Pinebreath…Toxic unless fried…Ophoron…Maxxt…Powdered Maxxt…Rehydrated Maxxt…’ Fortunately, over in the furthest corner, she spotted what was clearly the part of the kitchen the Doctor actually used. The work surface here was smeared with jam – among other less recognisable things – and there were toast crumbs, a toaster, half a loaf of slightly stale bread, a jar of carefully labelled homemade ‘rhubarb and vanilla’ jam – its lid missing – and a butter dish with enough smears and globs of butter left in it for Bryony to use it in the construction of an improvised jam sandwich. She couldn’t find any cutlery – and was too hungry to make an exhaustive search – and so she had to use her fingers for buttering and jam application. And she’d had to tear lumps off the bread. Still – it was the best jam sandwich she’d ever met. It was so delicious, in fact, that she immediately made another.

As she noticed the tell-tale crunch of sand – ironically – in her second sandwich, she was already considering where she’d get a really good scrub down with some nice hot water and then a nap, when she heard a noise behind her.

More accurately, it came both from behind her and above.