What kind of a man am I?

Obviously, I am a new kind of a man. Never been seen before. Never again, either, come to think of it.

On the other hand, I'm a very old sort of a man. Been around for ages, I have. Practically forever.

What kind of a man am I?

Am I a good man?

Well, as good as I have ever been.

Am I a vain man?

Depends what I look like, but let's just say, I wouldn't be seen dead in my Sixth Incarnations' getup.

Am I a brave man?

Well, I step out of here, out of the safety of my TARDIS, during one of the weakest points of my bodies existence, and I'm grinning like a loon.

Or at least, I think I'm grinning like a loon. Can't tell – I can't see my face. Ooh, imagine if I'd regenerated into a body that could have seen its own face! That'd have been cool.


Well, my vernacular is very Twenty First Century Britain, so obviously Rose had an effect. Better than the Manchester accent - isn't it? Less likely to get commented on. Wonder where I got that from? Did I get it from somewhere? At least my dress sense is better. Certainly my ears must be.

Are they though? Or do I just think that? Hard to be objective about your own body after a while. Nine was. Six never was. Three was for three seconds then got used to it. Two didn't even think about it. Never did get used to Eight. All that hair. Four was cool. Again with the vernacular! Must sort that. Mustn't I? Five – well, I think I was grateful I regenerated at all, but he was still pretty good... yeah, I liked Five.

Ooh, big baddies. Must sort them. Rose looks happy. Hm. My fault, I guess. Harriet, Mickey - somehow, I get the urge to call him Ricky. Hm. Well. Anyway. Where was I? Oh that's right, saving the world.


How d'you do that again?