Ah. So that’s how it is.
“Why, my angel! You’re just what I’ve been looking for!” says the Doctor, rubbing his stomach and throwing up his hands as he makes a great show of assuming the position before the time-honoured dispenser of goodies. “And we’ve got to figure out where little Flamina’s TARDIS is, yes we do!” He rubs his small stomach again, scratching thick yet lanky fingers left and right over his shirt this time.
The boxy fat machine quivers, shivering her metal timbers in their moorings; an earthquake-ridden house.
Any moment now, the Doctor reasons, there will be a shower of rivets and shavings… he’s never had much luck with these things.
He waits, leaning against the wall with one foot out and the other crossed over his knee. His pale fingernails tap softly against the white surface, beating out the rhythm to another one of those songs he helped the Beatles write, Eleanor something.
One hand scuffles in the left-hand, endless pocket of his dark grey, pinstriped trousers (the shirt he’s wearing beneath his robe is pinstripey too; he wonders if that was wise), as if for change, and green eyes avert themselves, lest they draw attention.
As if summoned, a clink arrives against the little black bar along the bottom of the vending machine. Behind the glass, a chilled sausage tin chinks soothingly, back and forth. Back and forth.