The Doctor knocked on the townhouse door. "This should be easy. A doddle. Done in a tick."
The door opened.
"Hello! I'm the Doctor and we're here to..." he began, holding out his psychic paper like a business card.
The woman who opened the door examined it and her face lit up. "Oh! The Pest Doctor! Why, I didn't know Harry called the exterminators! That's wonderful, we've had the oddest things going on in the kitchen. Right this way!" she said and let them in, leading the way to her kitchen.
"An exterminator?" The Doctor grumbled to Amy, under his breath as he lagged behind. "I was hoping for public health inspector at least."
Amy tweaked his nose. "Hush, you. Don't mess with what works."
The man in the doorway took one look at the Doctor and his psychic paper and his face soured. "Nation of Islam? Get out of here, I don't want any," he said and slammed the door in The Doctor's face.
The Doctor rubbed his nose. "Tough crowd, Americans."
Amy nodded towards his collar. "Ah, no offense, Doctor, but I think it might have been the..."
"The bowtie?" He cocked his head, offended. "Bowties are cool!"
"Oh, you're Housekeeping! Come right in!" said the young woman in Room 318, not even bothering to glance at his psychic paper. "We'll be leaving, give us a minute, okay?" she asked, and bustled into the room. "Betsy! Betsy, let's have lunch. You'll want clean towels and a mint on your pillow, won't you?"
"That," said the Doctor to himself, looking down at his open collar and suspender-free pants, "Is the last time I go casual."
The Doctor leaned against the ancient stonework and took a deep sniff of the night air, inhaling happily. "Ah, Cambridge 1968, you'll like it, Amy. Wheels turning, the world changing. All these new and clever ideas just... fizzing around!" he said, spreading his arms dramatically at that last.
"And we're here to track an escaped Sontaran," Amy said with her arms crossed. "Don't suppose there'll be any Beatles concerts or Carnaby Street in my future?"
The Doctor wrinkled his nose. "Oh, don't look at me like that. We will, we will! But there won't be any concert if the Sontaran..."
"Kills most of Corpus Christi College. Got it. Forward!"
And that is how they ended up in conversation with the college porter on gate duty, trying to get in after hours.
"So, Mr. Smith..."
"Doctor Smith," said the Doctor, tapping his psychic paper. "It says right here"
The porter adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, beaming. "Why, bless my soul, so it is. You're a credit to your people, lad!"
The Doctor winced and tried not to think of Rassilon. Or the Time War. Or locking his people off from the rest of time and wishing them dead, after their leaders tried to destroy, well. Everything.
"I like to think so, yes," he said.
"Right," said the Doctor, storming in the door, brandishing his psychic paper. "We have Daleks on the High Street, and a busload of tourists forted up in the Top Shop trying to fend them off. That's not good, not good at all, so what do you have for me?"
The UNIT officers blinked. "Is it...really you, sir?" asked Captain Mogambo.
The Doctor turned, eyes narrowed, hands waving. "Yes, I'm me. It's me? I'm me. Just like every other time before." He threw his hands up in the air in disgust, "Honestly, humans!"