I wonder if you like your parents.

Naturally, the answer I'm going to get is yes; they're your parents, and you love them. But I'm not asking if you love them. I'm asking if you like them. That's completely different.

Generally the answer I'll get now is no; they're too clingy or too strict or too grouchy or too weird. But you remember you love them - you might even remember you love your annoying siblings.

I don't.

I hate my parents.

I love them, of course, but I hate them so much I forget to love them. If that makes any sense.

It's not as if it's an extreme case; they didn't beat me or anything like that. They just irritated me. Notice the past tense.

I'm rid of them now. Long since rid of them. I'm in care, actually. Up for adoption, even. I don't really want to be adopted - I feel like I can't trust most adults. Apart from Granny Edna, and my teachers, and the lovely postman, and old Mrs Tibbs across the street. Granny Edna's not my granny actually; that's just what we all call her because she makes the most wonderful cookies. Notice the plural.

There's a lot of kids like me, here at the Dumping Ground. And Granny Edna can't look after us all by herself - there's loads of staff, but I only really like Granny Edna. She's great with kids - makes you wonder why she doesn't have her own. You ask any girl, or some of the young boys, if they want to be adopted, and they'll say no; they want to stay at the Dumping Ground with Granny Edna.

The Dumping Ground - that's what we've always called it. It's not that it's dirty - Jack 'Axel' Richards, the chief cook, always keeps the place spring clean after his shifts. It's not that it's shabby - we're not really rich, but the outside is like a mansion, and every room has a TV; even the kitchen. The girls tell me it was just a name from this show about a girl in care, but I think it came from the older boys telling the little ones they'd been dumped; abandoned forever. It puts them into hysterics for some strange reason.

I wasn't dumped. I came here on my own free will. I guess I'd better explain. I was put into care a few years back, when I was only six. I don't really remember exactly what the problem was, but it had something to do with binge-drinking. And I can certainly remember the belt. I've still got the scar on my forehead. It was an accident though - my Dad was under the influence, and Mum was too drunk or too doped to do anything about it. I knew that, and I wasn't scared of them; so I took them back, when Dad was released on bail a year later. I don't know where Mum got the money - she must have won it in a bet. There was champagne and everything. I was even allowed a tiny sip. It tasted revolting, but my parents seemed to like it. They started drinking again. Heavily. I heard them argue a lot in the night. But I'd grown up tough; I wasn't scared of them - though I did worry for their health a bit.

I think hard, but I can't actually recall what compelled me to run away. I just packed a bag or two and left, in the dead of night. I guess I just got fed up with them. I ran all the way across the county to the Dumping Ground, and demanded to move back in. Granny Edna took me in warmly, but Mum and Dad weren't happy. They ordered me to come back home. But the police could see I didn't care to. There was a lot of political stuff that followed that I didn't really understand - but eventually the forms were signed and I was officially a Dumping Ground kid. I couldn't be happier.

So that's me in a nutshell. I'm a Bad Girl. Tough as old boots, me. And I pack a pretty mean kick. I don't miss my parents. Not at all. They can drink themselves to death for all I care. Though I do sometimes wonder what they're up to, how they're getting on. Do they miss me?

I'm only twelve. Very nearly a teenager. It's a lot to happen before you're a teenager, eh?

I'm Alex, by the way. And yes, I am a girl. At first the boys laughed at my guy's name, but I always tell them it's short for Alexia and that shuts them up. I love my name - it's feisty and fun, like me. I'm a feminist, but a real tomboy, and nobody wants to pick a fight with Alex! I love pretend games, though, and making up stories. I still weep at old Disney films, and enjoy playing games like hide-and-seek with the younger children.

That's what I'm going to do now, actually. Play hide-and-seek outside in the evening moonlight. Not with the little ones, though; with Kimberley and Vicky and Fergus - my older friends from school.

I love my friends - if I ever do get adopted; I'd like to still be able to live around here, so I can still play in the woods with them.

Actually... no. I don't care where I end up living at all. I don't care if I never see them again - I just want somebody who'll truly care for me and keep me safe and happy. Somebody even remotely normal.

Nah; I'm a magnet for trouble - it won't happen. Better just go out and play now, they'll be wondering where I am. And hope for even the smallest of adventures to scoop me up and whisk me away.

...It won't. Epic adventures are finished with me. Life can't possibly love me enough to give me anything more... the trip of a lifetime... a real friend... no way.

------

Just up the road from the large expansive building Alex and her peers dubbed 'the Dumping Ground', there was a man, in the longest brown coat you'd ever see, strolling casually down the streets in the twilight with a look of pure pleasure on his face. To glance at him you'd think he'd just won the lottery. Twice. On his wedding day. Or maybe he'd won a luxury cruise around the world, all expenses paid, every essential - and non-essential - item or pleasure catered to him at his whim. Oh, and he could keep the yacht as well.

The Doctor had done neither of these things. What use had he for money and flash cars? He had everything he needed just round the corner, waiting for him. His own future was a blank book. And he preferred to keep it that way. It was much more fun then.

He popped the last of his chips into his mouth - utterly delicious; just the right level of salt and vinegar, the most delectable crisp texture. Tossing the paper wrapper into the nearest bin, he made a mental note to come back here one day. Maybe last week, that seemed appealing for some reason.

The streetlamps cast eerie, angular shadows around him, making his narrow face look dark and sinister. If only for a second. The Doctor was anything but dark and sinister.

Speaking of dark and sinister...

He looked up at the endless blanket of stars, but his eyes weren't on them, not this time. They'd better get going, he thought to himself. They gave me their word. Come on, don't let me down. Off you go, go on!

He grinned to himself. There it was. A streak of golden light shooting off into space. Anyone seeing it would have been confused for a split second, then called it a comet or a shooting star, and moved on.

Not this time. Someone would realise something was afoot when they found specks of green blood painted around the local nuclear plant. But they'd have missed all the excitement. Oh, well.

'Hope they managed to get you out of that malfunctioning skin suit, mate,' he said to nobody. 'I'd hate to think of a nice, innocent Foamasi like you having the juice squeezed out of you like a lemon.'

Still, he was gone now. Problem solved. The shiny green humanoid would be moving onto greener pastures now. Quite literally, if he'd got his co-ordinates right. Maybe the Doctor would go check up on him sometime. Only time would tell.

The Doctor moved on, hands jammed into spacious tech-filled pockets. The sky was now a silent black bowl pinpricked with dots of fire. He'd be near one of those in a minute. Which one, though? So many choices.

He walked down the path into the street. A trio of young lads were ambling along on the opposite side of the road. One of them shouted a greeting, and, even though with his keen senses he could pick up the faded whiff of ethanol even from here (definitely Scotch, full of malt; a noxious cocktail of bitter-sweet, sour and unpleasant), he waved a cheerful hand in reply. The evening was warm, despite a stiff, swirling, yet gentle breeze which tugged and flapped at the hem of his long coat but hadn't quite decided on the direction it should blow. There was a distant noise of late Friday-night traffic, whistling in the darkness far behind him. The amber smog of London stained the lower sky in front of him with light pollution; the pink-tinged clouds beginning to turn grey and voluminous as the sun set. Two streets away, someone was yelling and laughing.

He strode directly across the road, tacking between parked cars, their bonnets and roofs just displaying the last, almost invisible etchings of Februrary frost. His breath steamed the air. Britain just kept getting colder. The crescent moon was already visible, its wispy, ethereal halo weak and watery, but a moon nonetheless. The night wind licked a couple of small trees nearby; black and violet shadow patterns stirred as they hissed and creaked slightly, and all the shadows around rocked and nodded. The lull of the storm in the hours before the pubs emptied.

There were some kids mulling about under the glow of a streetlamp - two girls and a young boy. The eldest girl, a stocky blonde, was pacing, arms wrapped around herself to shield against the chilling winds of early April. 'Hurry up, Alex,' she muttered to herself, 'it's freezing out here, we wanna play.'

Chuckling to himself, the Doctor went past them - they barely noticed him in the darkness, he had that effect on people sometimes - and slipped into the gloomy back alleyways like a panther on the prowl.

'Lots of gloom,' he murmured. 'Looming gloom. A real gloom loom, assuming gloom can loom,' he added, nonsensically.

There she was. His TARDIS. Beautiful old thing. Right where he'd left it, just like always.

Well, when he said always... Sometimes his ship seemed to have a mind of her own.

The Doctor's mind jumped back to the children for a split second. They'd also missed the excitement. They'd have loved every minute, he'd bet. After all, he had.

He was itching to tell someone that the reptilian creatures he'd just encountered only spoke by clicking; they were physically incapable of speaking Human languages, and the only reason you could understand them was because they had communicators that could translate their native language, which they kept in their mouths. And that Foamasi also had the highest radiation resistance in the galaxy, due to a 20 minute war with a race called the Argolin, which had resulted in their planet becoming sterile and highly radioactive. And that they had hollow bones with double joints every few centimetres, a high liquid content, small organs and a retractable tail, which allowed the Foamasi to compress themselves into very small spaces, such as humanoid skin suits. And that they were known to produce brandy.

But there was no-one with him to tell.

The Doctor had travelled alone before, often for decades at a time. After he'd lost everything but his TARDIS, he'd decided he didn't need companions or friends anymore. But then he'd met Rose, who had been both those things and so much more. He'd vowed to travel alone again after he'd lost her... Well, that hadn't lasted, and quite right too.

He found he was smiling, even though he was feeling a little sad.

About a week ago he'd met a bloke called Jackson Lake, back in the early twentieth century, who had ended up knowing the Doctor far better than a lot of people. For a while he'd thought he was the Doctor. Poor guy. And he had told him, after the CyberKing had been defeated, during that Christmas dinner, that maybe he ought to find somebody new to travel with, because he wasn't really the same man when he was on his own. After all, he would know.

The Doctor had initially tossed that idea aside. After what had happened to Donna? Was he mad? But after some thought... well, it was worth considering.

He thought about those children again for a moment, mucking about, oblivious to the escapades he'd gotten himself involved in.

Yes, he thought. Somebody else would be nice.

He patted the doors of his ship fondly. 'Just you and me again, old girl,' he said. 'Still... probably find someone worth talking to soon.'

The TARDIS hummed in response.

He smiled. 'Ah, you know I love you really. Tell you what, you can pick where we go next. Just hit random shuffle, eh? Lucky dip.'

Then, with a quick glance around to see if anyone was watching, he opened the doors and stepped inside. Where to next? He wondered again. Let's try... the future.