I am perhaps unusual in that I came to ‘Doctor Who’ through the numerous novelisations and not through the television show.
There’s always time for babbling.
The humans were protecting their heritage, or so they thought. Strange that Mud Men seem more concerned about the past than the present.
HOLLY: Are you suggesting I occasionally stray from the rule book? FOALY: No. I’m suggesting you do not own a copy of the rule book, and if you do, you have certainly never opened it.
He knew that Dr. Argon would advise him against bottling up his emotions as it would lead to psychological scarring in the long term.
Of course. Opal is toying with our emotions for her own gratification. Nothing more. She wishes to place herself in a position of power, emotionally.
We lost the crickets.
Artemis: How long will it take you to prepare the time spell? N1 chewed his knuckle: About as long as it takes you to take your clothes off. “Aaarrk,” Artemis half choked.
Holly: Seven and a half hours to save the world. Isn’t there some law that says we get twenty-four? Artemis: I don’t think Opal pays much attention to laws.
My truffles? You took them? That’s just mean!
Foaly twitched his tail contentedly. Genius. No point in being humble about it.
Hit that back-stabber where it hurts, right in the ambition.
Listen to me, convict. I have not traveled all this way to listen to your war stories. So shut your trap before I shut it for you. Commander Julius Root.
Grab some caviar from the kitchen. You wouldn’t believe the muck they feed us in Bartleby’s for ten thousand a term.
Now before we get into anything, ladies, no scratching, no spitting and no tattling to mummy.
Argh? Pathetic and inarticulate. Nice combination. Your mothers must be so proud.
It’ll be messy, but after a day you’ll be zipping around as though you were a thousand years old again.
Scientists are the enemies of tradition, and tradition own all the prisons. – Victor Vigny.
If you’re going to read five books, three should be issues and two for fun.
Everything rests on the poisoned wine. If it were just the queen, I could force it down her gullet, but Declan Broekhart would run me through with that damned ceremonial sword, and if his wife’s stares were daggers, he’d be dead already.