Jackie hounds Rose around the kitchen asking the questions all the under-tens need answered: "How can he go changing his face? Is that a different face or is he a different person?" Things we won't know, things you can't answer. Rose snaps at her mother that she has no way of knowing any of this, and immediately apologizes. Her mom nods, and Rose's eyes begin to fill with tears: "The thing is, I thought I knew him, mum. I thought me and him were...and then he goes and does this. I keep forgetting he's not human." The worst mistake any of them could make. Especially her. Especially him. Rose takes her mom's hand and changes the subject to how she's awesomely slutty: "The big question is, where'd you get a pair of men's pajamas from?" Jackie rolls her eyes and admits that "Howard" has been staying over. Rose: "Howard from the market? How long's that been going on?" About a month. I love Jackie's love life: "First of all, he starts delivering to the door, and I thought, 'That's a bit odd.' Next thing you know, it's a bag of oranges..." Rose tunes out, noticing my main squeeze Harriet Jones on the television. She wanders away from her mom and into the living room; Jackie is a little offended, but this whole show is about Rose wandering off in the middle of her mom's life story.
Rose stares at the screen: "Why's she on the telly?" Jackie explains that Harriet's Prime Minister now -- "I'm eighteen quid a week better off" -- and Rose smiles, overjoyed and incredulous. "They're calling it Britain's Golden Age," Jackie says. "I keep on saying, 'My Rose has met her!'" Rose nods: "Did more than that, stopped World War Three with her! Harriet Jones..." On the TV, they're talking to her about the Guinevere One space probe, asking Harriet if it's "a waste of money," and Harriet gets very effin' British on the reporter's ass: "I completely disagree, if you don't mind." Even Rose laughs, but I don't know: if you're British, is that a joke? Or just what your PM would say? Harriet explains that Guinevere One represents her country's "limitless ambition," usually a bad word on this show. I don't know. You say "Guinevere" and I think Eve: some woman who got blamed by history because even though everybody else fucked up too, they got to say she dragged them all down with her. "British workmanship sailing up there among the stars," she says, recalling Maiden Britain and all. A small elfin man with a short boxed beard -- the kind we used to call "the Agamemnon" -- takes the mic: "This is the spirit of Christmas, birth and rejoicing, and the dawn of a new age, and that is what we're achieving fifteen million miles away: our very own miracle." That's Llewellyn, the manager of the Guinevere project. We watch the miracle in a computerized mockup, zooming about in space, and learn that its final descent will be at midnight tonight. Merry Christmas!