Ace: Do you feel like arguing with a can of deodorant that registers nine on the Richter scale?
Mel: Oh all right, you win.
The Doctor: I do? I usually do.
Mel: I'm going now.
The Doctor: Yes, that's right, you're going. You've been gone for ages. You're already gone. You're still here. You've just arrived. I haven't even met you yet. It all depends on who you are and how you look at it. Strange business, time.
The Doctor: Think about me when you're living your life one day after another, all in a neat pattern. Think about the homeless traveller in his old police box, his days like crazy paving.
Mel: Ace doesn't have anywhere to go.
The Doctor: Nonsense, it's an idyllic place, Perivale! It's got lush green fields - and village blacksmith, um-
Mel: Doctor, she comes from the twentieth century!
The Doctor: Oh...
Mel: I'll send you a postcard!
The Doctor: But I don't have an address!
Mel: Oh, I'll put it in a bottle and throw it into space! It'll reach you... in time.
The Doctor: Ace! Where d'you think you're going?
Ace: Perivale...
The Doctor: Ah yes, but by which route? The direct route with Glitz? Or the scenic route? Well, do you fancy a quick trip around the twelve galaxies and then back to Perivale in time for tea?
Ace: ACE!
The Doctor: But there are three rules! One: I'm in charge.
Ace: Whatever you say, Professor!
The Doctor: Two: I'm not 'the Professor', I'm the Doctor!
Ace: Whatever you want!
The Doctor: And the third... Well, I'll think up the third by the time we get back to Perivale.
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