The windows are grimy, faded now with age and disuse. But they yield a spectacular view. To the glass queen’s right and left, where once were wings, he can see Gallifrey in jagged gaps of ruby grassland and silver mountain range, painted on an amber skyline, a shining city of nature and man to the eyes of any diminutive tourist. It’s been a long time since he’s been here.
Too long, he thinks, as he reaches down to brush at an old stone bench, freeing it of a tailor’s worth of cobwebs, and several thousand lifetimes’ worth of bluish leaves and little greenish pellets of tafelshrew dung.
Spring cleaning never hurt anyone, much. It’s what he keeps telling himself.
A few minutes later, he’s finally recovered the utility of the seating arrangement, so he sits and he leans, venerating his body’s superior self-sanitising properties, as every good obsessive-compulsive would. He feels like God. After all, the fluted strut holding up the arch of his lady’s window is as welcome a place as any to take a nap.