"It’s little Macra! Oh how adorable!” he says, as the seven crabs begin to grow taller than him. Their pincers soon tower over even the cave. But of course, carapace can be broken much more easily than rock.
Possibly miffed at himself for being entirely too valid in such a shifty environment, the Doctor brushes with indistinct skill at his green velvet coat, then turns aside from the whole sordid affair to stare at the bird, who says nothing. Worse than an Auton. No, wait, they speak. Good point, he thinks.
Heady for a spot of encore he runs a hand through his sand-weighted curls and turns orator, declaring loudly to the whole strange world of beach and cliff and rock and sand and cave, “Well, would you look at this- I’m the Brave Little Tailor! And I’m quite certain you’d like a nice lemon-butter sauce with that.”
Then he steps aside from the lurching giant crabs, grabs a piece of driftwood he hasn’t used yet. He sticks it in the fire, hunting a hot spot. The drift alights, fire crawling like really fast slime-mould growth over the dry wood.
Throwing his torch arm about as though he’s drunk at the pitch, he waves the flame over the seven heads of the Macra and smiles, wishing he had one of Fitz’ cigarillos to puff aimlessly on. Had it been cigarillos?