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“London, 1969. You know, we’re not far from where that chameleon circuit went out originally.” The Doctor cast a satisfied glance over the TARDIS, which looked entirely unremarkable on the roadside. “For once you’ll blend in beautifully. Well, I’d better not be late to the party!”
Spirits high, he strolled off towards the home of Barbara and Ian Chesterton.
(When he’d run into Ian and Barbara three decades in the future, they’d mentioned that he’d crashed their television viewing party the day an astronaut walked on the moon; thus, the Doctor knew exactly where to go.)
Seven hours, an emotional reunion, and one ginger drink too many later, he found himself staring blearily at the third police box in a row on which he’d tried his key.
Once again, this one was just a regular, wooden police box.
The Doctor sighed. The problem with situationally appropriate camouflage forms was that you really had to remember where you parked. If you forgot, you couldn’t just wander the city pretending you knew where you were going until you saw a blue box — not when half the corners held a blue box of their own.
This might be a longer trip than planned.