"I'm not the Tea Lady," she'd protested that first day, but she'd always done a good job making it anyhow.
These days, he did it himself.
The UNIT lab was quiet, undisturbed by Mick Jagger's voice. Synthetic enzymes sensitive to Auton plastics were settling in test tubes, and nobody knocked them over in a coltish, nearsighted burst of overenthusiasm. The makings of several delta wave augmentors for curing Silurian Phobic Psychosis lay undisturbed on the desk.
While the Doctor stared at a picture post card from Brasilia, the water boiled away and the air began to stink of burning toast.