Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography

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A long table scattered with scripts, water bottles and paper name plates stretched the whole length of the room. What felt like hundreds of people milled around expectantly, chatting, checking BlackBerries, casting sideways glances as I tried to keep breathing and affect an air of insouciant calm. I took my place in front of my little paper sign and glanced around the table. And there, just across from me and down to my left, a face from my childhood leapt out from among the throng.

Sarah Jane Smith was quietly leafing through a script and composing herself for the afternoon ahead. Perhaps she was sipping a glass of water, maybe chatting to her neighbour, I don’t remember now – all I remember is the sense that in that moment someone familiar, someone comforting and someone slightly magical had come to make sure everything was going to be all right.

If Sarah was here, there was nothing to worry about. Later that afternoon she would be calling me Doctor. The little eight-year-old in my head (who was frankly reeling at the fact that I was in that room at all) was soothed, and of course thrilled, that the Doctor’s one true assistant was there to look out for him.

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