There’s a portrait on the wall behind me, looks like you but it’s too old, so it’s your father. All the chairs are angled away from it. Daddy’s been dead for twenty years but you still can’t get comfortable where he can see you. There’s a christmas tree in the painting but none in this house, on Christmas eve. You’re scared of him and you’re scared of being like him and good for you, you’re not like him, not really, and do you know why?
Because you didn’t hit the boy. Merry Christmas, Mr Sardick.
The Doctor: Ooh! Now, what’s this? And I love this - a big flashy lighty thing, that’s what brought me here - big flashy lighty things have got me written all over them. Well, not actually, but give me time. And a crayon.
Kazran: Abigail’s crying.
The Doctor: Yes.
Kazran: When girls are crying are you supposed to talk to them?
The Doctor: I have absolutely no idea.
Kazran: I’ve never kissed anyone before. What do I do?
Eleven: Well… Try being a little nervous and rubbish and a bit shaky.
Eleven: Because you’re gonna be that anyway, might as well make it part of the plan.
“Are you really a babysitter?”