She's just about sick of being tossed around, Doctor. She gets up and pretends to blithely dust her shoulders, but the truth is that one of his feet introduced itself too intimately to her ribcage, and she smashed one of her hands under her own knee. Delightful. At least she managed to cradle her head to prevent any damage there - god only knows the damage her brain doesn't need.

"A for effort, D for execution." She says, wiping away a bit of saliva that worked its way out of her mouth during the tumble. "Where are we?"

She's hoping it's a golf course, honestly. Somewhere clearly civilized, but not where a million people will swarm them in curiosity - from the feel of that landing, she doesn't think the TARDIS just materialized the way she's been told it usually does. A golf course would do her nicely.