A month or so. And you'd know if it hadn't. Most of us have got magboots- [She gestures down to the heavy shoes beneath her cuffed jumpsuit.] -but they don't stop your hair from trying to float away.

[There's the slightest bit of amusement to the recollection, deliberately inserted to hide the growing tension in her chest. River. River Song, her best friend's dead wife. One of the ghosts she could never quite measure up to (though she'd stopped hoping to, after awhile). Clara feels twenty-four again, small and insecure, both awed and threatened.]

I'm Clara. Clara Oswald.