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were all human-like Ood. Although they didn’t seem very Ood-y. They were a bit chatty. Out of the Ood-inary.
    He sighed. No one here would see why that was funny. What a waste.
    Focus.
    He looked across the road, getting his bearings. ‘Town hall.’ He nodded. ‘Fishmonger.’ He nodded again. ‘Bus stop. Post Office. Newsagent. Aaand… there!’
    She followed his pointing finger. ‘That’s the pub.’
    ‘Yes! Beating heart of the community. Receiving and transmitting station for all the important news of the day! Last time I went there I learned all kinds of interesting things. And, look, they do afternoon tea. I like tea.’
    He did. Tea was great. But gossip was even better.
    The pub was the same as it had been last time he was here, down to the stains on the old wooden boards. He looked around the little, low-ceilinged room, and sat at the table next to a lady with a dog in a handbag, because he’d always found that fascinating.
    *
    She’d realised she was going to have to pay for tea, because he wasn’t carrying any money. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but he wasn’t. He had his psychic notepaper – which hadn’t worked on her and wouldn’t work here either – and he had a pocket full of diamonds which would almost certainly cause a bit of a stir. On the other hand, he had a pocket full of diamonds and he was going to give them to her to buy a new house, so she could afford to be a bit generous about tea.
    When she got back to the table, he was talking to the old woman with the dog, and he had established that his new friend preferred Regency furniture, hated Italian food, and wasn’t fond of the new girl in the butcher who was too cheeky by half. And she was going home soon because the streets weren’t safe after dark.
    ‘I don’t hold with this new fellow, I must say,’ she was saying, ‘this Mr Heidt. Not a proper name, really, is it?’
    ‘Not like Jones.’
    ‘No! Exactly. Not like Jones, at all. If Jones was good enough for my late husband, why not for this outlandish fellow who wants to develop the place? Wants to come and put those tall towers in the middle of the square, I shouldn’t wonder, and here we are after all these years having kept that sort out. There’ll be supermarkets and unpleasantness, no doubt.’
    ‘Wouldn’t want that. Best to keep to the old ways.’
    ‘I don’t say progress isn’t very fine,’ she said sharply. ‘There are gizmos and what all making life better, no question. But in their place. And this person with the Teutonic name is out of his. Well, perhaps he’s a good enough sort, I’m sure I’ve not a notion. But just since he’s been it’s all wrong, is what I say.’
    ‘Not safe after dark.’
    ‘No, indeed, not. Not safe, at all.’
    ‘Bad weather?’
    ‘Oh!’ Her small, dark eyes peered out from beneath flabby brows. She looked like a blackbird scouting for worms. ‘I know what you mean. Clever boy. No, not that. Not for years. No, it’s different now.’
    ‘Different how?’
    Her face set stubbornly. ‘It’s just not safe. Not safe at all. And I hold it’s all this new thinking is the problem.’
    ‘Mr Heidt.’
    ‘I didn’t say that, did I? Naming no names. But he’s very modern. I don’t think we need modern, here.’
    The Doctor pressed, but she either wouldn’t or couldn’t say any more. He escorted her to the door and garnered an introduction to the two crones by the door, both of whom were on Christina’s list of Nasty Old Women because they’d been unkind about her after Simon had died. They didn’t approve of going out in the evening, or new people, or modern things. They also didn’t take much to the Doctor. One of them called him a Fancy London Boy. He retreated.
    ‘That went well,’ Christina murmured to him.
    ‘Pffaww,’ he agreed. ‘They’re a pair! They don’t like anything. They don’t even like the dachshund. Who doesn’t like dachshunds? They’re little parcels of dog-shaped goodness.