Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the console room, looking like the Tailor of Gloucester, the Doctor worked steadily with needle and thread, tacking up the bottoms of the smallest pair of trousers he could find.
“You know your problem, don’t you? You’re too short.”
“It’s not my fault. I’m only eight.”
“Yes, well, you should grow faster. Are you eating your vegetables?”
“Eat more; they’ll make you grow. And milk. Drink lots of milk. Here, put these on. Can’t have you running around the TARDIS in pyjamas.”
He’d only stopped for a moment; now he had a stowaway.