#rose novelisation

Nine 🤝 Fifteen

Nine 🤝 Rogue

STOP I CAN'T TAKE THIS

text id: They stood there together, Rose and the Doctor, in an intimate silence. Then she looked at the north-east curve of the horizon below, some plains of Russia. Focusing on particular dips of the landscape. She waited, and then, as she knew she would, she saw them change under the planet's slow revolve.

'I can feel it,' she said. 'The turn of the Earth.'

So, I’m rereading Rose novelisation these days (cause, boy, I love RTD’s writing), and then I stumble upon this passage and I just can’t. And this ‘chick’ grew into the badass and married just as badass and gorgeous woman. That’s one proper Smith & Jones for ya!

So I just finished reading it and Ahdgfhjdvdgv there are soo many amazing things about this novel that make it even better than the episode, that no one’s really talking about. Therefore, here is my list of highlights from the book. 

SPOILERS:

“Rose saw a photo of a man with a fantastic jaw, dressed in a tweed jacket and a bow time. Then Clive kept the sequence going; an older, angry man in a brown caretaker’s coat, holding a mop; a blond woman in braces running away from a giant frog in front of Buckingham Palace; a tall, bald black woman wielding a flaming sword; a young girl or boy in a hi-tech wheelchair with what appeared to be a robot dog at their side…”

‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t,’ said Rose. She kissed him, then kissed him some more, then made her way through to the kitchen. ‘Hello, you lot.’

Mickey’s little gang sat in the kitchen: Mook Jayasundera, a shy, tiny lad with big staring eyes; Patrice Okereke, the gangling, grinning joker of the pack; and Sally Salter, born Stephen Salter, sharp, spiky-haired and cautious but always, Rose thought, smiling at some private joke. They all whooped and stood and hugged her and asked about last night while Mickey made them coffee.

Rose loved this little gang. They called themselves a band, rehearsing their R&B once a week, after hours, in the garage where Mickey worked, but they had few musical ambitions beyond earning £60 in the Lamb & Flag once a month; really, they were together for the laughs. And laugh they did, this untidy little kitchen often full of booze and music. Rose thought the company he kept was one of the best things about Mickey. His crew weren’t just mates, they were all escaping something; the flat had only one bedroom but the living room settee was usually taken up by whichever member of the band had fallen out with someone the night before. Mook was the youngest of six brothers and came to No.90 so he could gradually, cautiously, definitely be gay. Patrice held down three jobs, saving for the day he could leave home and escape his mother’s sullen boyfriend. Sally had never gone back to her parents since starting to transition, calling her old home Stephen’s house, keeping a toothbrush and clothes at five different flats scattered across the estate. And Mickey was the centre of their lives. He’d been on the housing list at 16, and at 18 he’d been granted that holy grail, a flat of his own. The first thing he did, when given the keys to No.90, was to prop that door open and make others welcome.

Rose watched him now, taking forever to make the coffee. Mickey was a lean, chippy strip of a lad, with that winning smile, bristling with energy all day long. Even now, he kept darting to and fro—a little dance with Patrice, drumming out a new riff with teaspoons on Mook’s head, showing Sally the Daily Mirror’s front-page photo of Henrik’s in which, he swore, if you got a magnifying glass, you could see Rose in the rubble, there, right there, that little yellow blob—and she thought, I’m lucky. Mickey Smith is a good man.