He hasn't disappeared this time and it almost feels like a step in the right direction. He hasn't jogged off back to the TARDIS and punched in the co-ordinates for 13th Century Turkey to get her some extinct coffee beans. He's barely even thought about that one planet a few thousand light-years away, where they inject a caffeine-like serum into your fingernails and it keeps your hands busy for a week.

For once, he's just queuing. Just standing there, awkwardly trying to avoid physical contact with the man hovering much too near his left shoulder and simultaneously looming over the heads of people in front of him in his grey-stick-insect way and trying vainly to make himself look smaller.

Being normal, pretending to be human, fits him about as well as one of Clara's tiny coats.