“Undone, to get all Barbara Cartland about it. And you? You’ve barely broken a sweat, and I think that’s only because this room’s so bloody ho....” The Doctor leaned back against the headboard and laced his fingers over his stomach. “I see,” he said, crossing his ankles under the sheets. It was a pose she’d seen him do hundreds of times, but something about seeing him doing it now, and here was both vaguely irritating and a bit of a turn-on. Which, Amy thought, described most of her reactions to. Friday’s happening was a sad event, Maggie and I went to the funeral of old Gracie Dwight. Charlie Dwight owned a largish farm and market garden about a mile up the road between Mum’s house and the garden centre, with big orchards, strawberry fields and a Farm Shop which sold their produce direct to the public. All the local kids knew Mrs. Dwight, she was a nice old lady who handed out free apples or pears to any children who went up to the farm shop. I suppose that it wasn’t really a shop so. More

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