A cheerful old man opens that most portentous of doors, checking the weather.
“Wilfred!” the Doctor exclaims, slinging his collected rainwater this way and that with an embracing gesture.
The rotund, stubbly old soldier smiles with red eyes and holds the Doctor’s arms just so, bringing them back down to their sides as he rubs them. Wiping at tears, he calls over his shoulder for his daughter to join him.
“Sylvia, he’s here! Let’s get him inside, then. Some tea, lad?”
“Alright, Dad! Bring him in already!” comes Sylvia’s slightly caustic voice, possibly from the room the telly’s in.
The Doctor is unsure. Is Wilfred offering tea or telling Sylvia to make some? Regardless, he comes inside under the man’s light wing of an arm, cracking his neck as the old man, clad in a well tan sweater and a faded reindeer hat, relieves him of his coat.
“You must stay with us! Here, go into the sitting room and we’ll feed you some tea and…”
The Doctor raises his hand in a wordless negative, then looks about for a room.