Carolyn stood in the kitchen doorway and watched the Doctor cook breakfast. He was in his shirtsleeves, wearing her apron. With one hand he scrambled eggs in one skillet, while with the other he deftly folded mushrooms and green peppers into an omelette. Every so
often a hand flew over to flip a few of the pancakes browning on the griddle beside the stove, or leapt over to the cabinets to dig out a few more spices or jams for the collection he was amassing on the counter. He moved with the grandiose energy of an orchestra conductor who was just getting to one of his favourite bits. Throughout it all he was singing, a long spiraling melody which jumped between scraps of Italian, snatches of what sounded like a bebop trumpet solo, and tongue-tripping percussion fills.