“… definitely the Admiral,” the 8th Doctor Flesh says softly to the TARDIS from his nice comfy high back chair, “…it was the only real choice, wasn’t it dear? It was, it was. It’s obvious really, because I was the very model of a modern Major General once, wasn’t I, and once I pull this wire and clip this doohickey here… attach this thingamajig to that bit there… oh wait that was the electric teapot. Oops. Was that the Admiral I just tripped over and broke? Oh it was, wasn’t it? Damn dyspraxia- this Flesh is failing, then. I’d better be quick. Ah, hm. Well, then. Hello, Amberola! And Dear, thank you so much for inviting me! And bringing the party favours to the console room. Always that.”
He stands for a moment with the flat of his hand against the TARDIS’ center console, then lifts the top of the standing old honey-colored Amberola; it slides off into his hand.
Just then a view screen drops down a bit too quickly on a periscope, smashing onto last week’s luncheon napkin (on which he is certain he scribbled the meaning of the universe for a fan at the party) and a treatise on the proper accord for dancing in one’s teacup with the tiny unicorn people of Flibbertigibbet.
The Master’s face and hands seem to be at odds through the viewfinder, as though the man is uncertain whether to tie his converse laces or wrap them around an absent neck… his fingers are twitching that-a-way, see? Obviously, he craves a freshly- greased garrote for his birthday. What a queer request for a party favour.
The Master seems to be mumbling something about… oh what is it?