...to the cutest little Doctor you ever did see, pajamas and a dressing gown, smiling brightly, hair all mad, about to kick ass: "Did you miss me?" (I didn't even know who the hell he was or what was going on, and I was like, "Fuck yeah I did!") Rose grins, and Caliban immediately tries to whip the Doctor's skeleton on fire. Stupid. The Doctor plucks the whip out of the air like Miyagi and snaps it out of Caliban's hand: "You could have someone's eye out with that!" The beast roars and jumps at him with his staff, but the Doctor abjures this rough magic too, breaking the staff and tossing it to the floor.
"And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my book," said Prospero, if you're keeping track -- everything ends. Every spell drops full fathoms eventually, and all revels eventually end; the great globe itself and all which it inherit must eventually dissolve. But, and this is essential: the end of every story contains the beginning of the next. Prospero destroys his books, but nobody ever said he didn't write new ones afterward. Ask the Face of Cassandra and the Face of Bo, if the end of the world is all there is. And when they answer, tell Rose please, and tell the Doctor. And ask the Doctor, if she's just a human, why does he talk like her now? Why does Scottish Tennant have a Rose Tyler Powell Estates accent in this role? What she's breathing out, he's breathing in. She's the anchor, he's the star.
"Now, you. Just wait. I'm busy." Caliban stares, the Doctor's finger pinning him wriggling as he turns to Mickey and Harriet and says hello: "Harriet Jones, MP for Flydale North! Blimey, it's like This Is Your Life!" He turns to Rose, beaming about the cuppa: "Superheated infusion of free radicals and tannin. Just the thing for healing the synapses." His face goes serious. "First things first, be honest. How do I look?" Different, Rose offers. "Good different or bad different?" Just different. (Smokin' different, by the way, is the correct answer.) He asks, in a terribly serious tone, if he's ginger. Rose looks at his hair, and shakes her head, bewildered and charmed: "No, you're just sort of...brown?" He whines that he's never been ginger, just terribly disappointed, and then whirls around on Rose (and us), holy finger of vengeance pointing madly: "And you, Rose Tyler, fat lot of good you were. You gave up on me..." he stops himself, kind of campishly horrified: "Oh, that's rude. That's the sort of man I am now, am I? Rude." Rose stares at him: "Rude and not ginger."