CHARDALOT: Don’t worry, Doctor, I’m sure he’ll forgive you.

DOCTOR: Forgive me? Marcel Proust was one of the most notorious sensitive authors in the French canon. I wasn’t aware he ever left his bedroom long enough to have dinner in a restaurant. He wouldn’t even go to the theatre, you know, just lie there under his quilt and listen to the play being relayed over the telephone. And to think I grabbed him by the shoulders and called him Marcel.

CHARDALOT: Well, yes.

DOCTOR: Breathed port fumes up his nose.

CHARDALOT: Yes.

DOCTOR: And told him what I thought of Swann.

CHARDALOT: Yes.

DOCTOR: Ah, how embarrassing.

CHARDALOT: Well, try not to give it too much thought, Doctor. You never know, the incident might end up in a book!

DOCTOR: Oh, I do hope not. That would get me into all kinds of trouble.

CHARDALOT: Some more coffee, perhaps. There’s plenty in the pot.

DOCTOR: Thank you. Oh, I’ll pay for this in the morning. I’ll have the Numskulls playing the Anvil Chorus on the inside of my head.

CHARDALOT: The Numskulls?

DOCTOR: Don’t you ever read the Beezer?