What! No Adric for the Pterodactyl? Long after the gaiety is over, when even the memory of merriment has died, in the silent auditorium, desolation dips a curtsy to despair. They embrace, and dance a stately pavane, while overhead, in the shadows crowding the walkway of the lighting gantry, loneliness beats time with a gentle regret. And below, the timid creeping creatures, those people of the twitching nose and flickering whiskers those who pursue their tenuous existence in the borderlands of Man's estate, begin to stir. On pattering paws, they sally forth to examine the scatter of detritus left over from the party. Ah! But it's an ill wind, and all that. Pickings will be good. Not even the meanest mouseling or rat-cub will go hungry this night. Somewhere, a distant clock chimes a melancholy five a.m. The people pause at their feasting. They sit back on haunches to listen, before resuming their dining upon the bounty of man's careless profligacy. Off in the dark, unseen, unheard, a door opens. An errant draft twitters across the floor, toying with the litter of laughter's leavings. Here, a crushed paper hat stirs, there a threadbare party streamer flexes like a thing multi-coloured snake. A balloon, robbed of its silver spangled glory by the dark, bobs and dips, adrift in the vast desolation. Again, the people pause. Something is afoot. Somewhere at the edges of the dark, the door is closed. The whimsical breeze, ever a friend to the people, pauses in its affectionate ruffling of furry backs to listen with them - for some mischief is definitely afoot. The drapes at the edge of the stage twitch. A tooth studded beak, separated from a bony crest by a pair of large Cool-Shades sunglasses, peers around the curtain. In the shadowy recesses of the wings there is a muffled argument followed by a scuffle followed by a wet fishy thump and an outraged swearing. Suddenly, above the bony crest, a plastic carrier bag with a hideous pink and chartreuse design arcs viciously into view. It narrowly misses a ginger moustache, smeared with peanut butter, attached to the snout of an amiable looking walrus which has just been thrust into view. Below the ginger moustache, the slightly crumpled beak of a comely pelican makes an artfully affected entrance. Smoothing ruffled feathers, she peers around at the darkness possessing the auditorium, before glaring up at the ginger moustache. Down in the auditorium, the diners are alert. They freeze momentarily; but these interlopers at the feast cannot possibly bear them any malice. Their curiosity piqued, the scuttlers amongst waste creep forward. The furry horde, crane necks to peer up at the stage, beady eyes a glimmer. For they sense that another show is about to begin. Taking his cue, the beak (plus Cool-Shades) essays forth onto the lonely expanse of the stage, lit by a silver lime-light of playful moon beams. They have wormed their way in through chinks from the pre-dawn dark outside especially to provide the lighting for this new spectacular. Through the ghostly silver radiance, the odd figure heads for the podium at a shuffling run , carefully swerving around the pools of unspeakable party left-overs. He is pursued by a flutter of ill-fitting black satin tuxedo, flapping in his wake like a semi-detached shadow. The little fellow gains the podium. The beak lifts as the head goes back, and further back, and yet further back. My, but the podium's high. Not only is the bloody podium too high, but the damned microphone is too bloody high too! Bob the Pterodactyl regards the recalcitrant paraphernalia with chagrin for a long moment, wondering why the world insists on persecuting him at every opportunity for being so short. Then he gives a "what the heck" shrug and turns to look up at the viewing screen, hanging in the shadows above the stage. Blank and silent it certainly is; and blank and silent it certainly remains; but for those theregathered, a scene plays upon that screen to the inward eye. It is the famous clip of Bob's moment of glory, revealing his towering talent and heroic artistry, in all its technicolor splendour. "Is the pterodactyl wearing sun glasses?" asked the Doctor, sipping his tall, cool drink. He wriggled into a more comfortable position in the sun lounger. Carefully setting down the drink, he propped his hat over his eyes, and folded hands over his favourite MCC sweater. Tegan, by dint of a great effort, dragged up her lower jaw from her knees. The look she gave the Doctor held a deal of accusation. Alright! So you saw some pretty odd things travelling with the Doctor - but a pterodactyl, with wings painted in gay stripes, hiring out as a wind break on Brighton Beach? Tegan felt certain this was not something to be blase about. She shot an appeal to Nyssa, but the Traken girl had her nose in a book - again! "When is a door not a door?" Nyssa recited from the bumper joke book. "When it's a-jar!" She giggled at the infantile joke and began to tell herself another. "Did you hear about the horse that turned into a field?" Tegan made a disgusted sound in her throat and looked round for Adric. The boy was having a great time, helping some kids build a sand castle. At least, he seemed to be acting normally - not that she cared to ally herself with him. In which case, there was nothing for it but to sneak another look. Tegan looked. It was still there; and it had been joined by a pelican with a huge beach bag in luminous chartreuse and pink. The white bird was fishing out raw fishes from the bag with its beak, tossing them into the air, and swallowing them whole. "Doctor?..." "Hmmmm?" the Doctor inquired absently. Of a sudden he burst into an animated clapping. "Oh! I say! Fine shot sir!" "Eh? Doctor?" "Hmmm?" "Eh - It's not wearing sunglasses." "Well. That's alright then," the Doctor assured her. Tegan picked up the red toy spade, and consoled herself with visions of hacking the Doctor to pieces with it - just to relieve her feelings a little - see how calmly he took that! The frame freezes and Bob The Pterodactyl turns back to the auditorium to bask in the silent adoration of his fans. No thunderous applause swells to greet his triumph and acclaim his towering talent. In their watchful silence, and in their rapt attention, do these denizens of the borderlands make known their approbation. And it makes no matter to Bob that the jostling, joying, hooting, cat-calling and partying crowds of fans have departed long since, for in truth Bob finds just as much delight in the silent rapt attention of his present audience. For these people of the naked tails, of the flickering whiskers and twitching noses, of the beady black eye and rounded ears, are more surely his people. In the wings, Pellucida Pelican, clutching her pink and chartreuse shopping bag full of fish, and Tuck the Walrus, pantomime a thunderous applause. Pellucida rummages in the bag, and with great reverence, lifts out a badly moulded plaster Adric statuette. She regards it fondly a long moment, before picking some fish scales from the face. Satisfied, she clutches it ready in a fever of excitement. Bob regards the microphone. He adjusts it downwards; but its still too high - even at the lowest setting. Looking around, Bob spots a smashed drum abandoned at the edge of the stage, and shuffle-hops across to fetch it. Getting it on a side, he perseveres in trundling the broken instrument to a position before the obstructive microphone. With a flutter of leathery wings, he hops atop the unsteady perch and, pulling out a wad of papers from a pocket of his tux, he strikes a pose. "my friends, I am honored -" he begins; but the wretched drum is in on the world's conspiracy against him. With malice aforethought, it rolls right. Bob rockets left. Squealing in fright, he turns an untidy somersault. The sheaf of papers flies from his claw. Taking their cue, his Cool-Shades go flying. A moment later, Bob lands with a splat in something unspeakably nasty, left over from the party, right on top of his Cool-Shades. In the wings, Pellucida gives a little squeak of alarm, and drops the Adric she has been waiting to present to her hero. It breaks into three pieces with aloud crack. About Bob, the pages flutter down, in a pathetic little snow flurry. With a tiny sigh, Bob clambers to his feet. He picks up the mangled remains of his Cool-Shades, wipes some of that unspeakable gunge from them. He holds them up, examining the twisted pieces with a fatalistic expression, which is not easy for a pterodactyl. He lodges them over his beak; but its useless; they're done for. With another little sigh, he puts them away, and begins to gather up the pages. He makes a desultory attempt to clean off the worst of the unspeakable something left over from the party. With a faintly apologetic air, a glimmering silver streamer of moon light illuminates the carefully printed legend across the title page: MY AKSEPTANCE SPEACH Bob regards the black letters printed in his best hand writing. A little tear sparkles at the corner of his eye. It inflates like a tiny silver balloon before trundling sadly down the length of his beak. At the tip, it pauses to make certain it has everyone's undivided attention, then it plops into a pool of the unspeakable goo. Bob sighs, and shuffles the crumpled pages into some sort of order. He wipes off some more gunge and shoves them out of sight. From the wings, Pellucida waddles on with all the grace of a well-bred pelican to gravely present her hero with the tatty plaster Adric (now in three sections). As Bob reaches for it, the head teeters and falls to the floor where it breaks in two. Bob stares down at the cracked cranium for a long moment. So, even the bloody Adric is in on the conspiracy? Oh well. He shrugs, picks up the two halves and pops them in with the notes for his speech. He braces up, squares his shoulders and solemnly accepts the remains of the Adric. He is careful to hold the two bits together. From the wings Tuck claps enthusiastically, as only a walrus can clap. Bob bows to the pair, bows again to his audience before taking a wistful look around. The blank white eye of the screen regards him, not unkindly; but the un-co-operative microphone and podium leer at him from above. Faintly, comes the sound of a sniggering laughter from the sound system; it might perhaps be just the hiss of static; or perhaps it is the distant echo of electronic laughter at Bob's egregious affrontery in staging his own private awards ceremony. But whatever it is, Bob doesn't care. At heart, he is an irrepressible show-off who learned long ago that if all else fails, you can always show-off to yourself. Tuck gives him an affectionate, and faintly fishy smelling, clap on the back. It was only a light, companionable slap, however...Pellucida glares up at the Walrus, sighs and stoops to rescue her shabby hero from another pool of that unspeakable something, wipes off more of the goo, and kisses him fondly. They link arms - well, in this case, flipper, leathery membrane and feathered wing, actually; and badly out of step, they shuffle into the concealing shadows waiting in the wings to receive them. A little later, a door is opened. The breeze stops tickling ears, remembers an important appointment with some of yesterday's newspapers in the street, and bustles for the exit, with the crumpled hats and streamers yearning in its wake. Then the door is closed, leaving the auditorium to the denizens of the border lands to finish their dinner in peace. The end Archive notes: Doctor: Fifth. Companions: Tegan. Nyssa. Adric. Special guests: Bob the Pterodactyl. Pellucida the Pelican. Tuck the Walrus. genre: Humour (hopefully)? Synopsis: Well! It IS marginally better than whinging! -- Clive May