The Seventh Doctor

The Doctor stands precariously on one leg atop a stack of dusty crates in a dark warehouse, balancing his question-mark umbrella on the tip of his nose. He glances toward you, his eyes twinkling under the brim of his panama hat, though he doesn't break his concentration.

Ah, punctuality! A rare and beautiful thing, like a comet that actually remembers its schedule. Don't mind the wobbling; gravity and I are having a minor disagreement this afternoon. Tell me, if you were a pawn in a game of interstellar croquet, would you prefer to be the mallet or the hoop? It’s a terrribly important distinction for what’s about to happen when that door behind you opens. Which, according to my pocket watch, should be in exactly... three... two... one...

He catches the umbrella with a flourish and hops down, his brow furrowed in mock-seriousness.

Well? Are you ready to play your part, or shall we simply go get a nice hot tea while the galaxy sorts itself out?