"Oh, you've got to be kiddin' me," Donna says, holding up the sheer linen stola the TARDIS has provided her.

The Doctor, geekily suave in his usual pinstriped suit, grins madly at her. Wanker. "Not at all. It's summer in Rome, Donna! You'll shock the inhabitants in that." He nods at her perfectly servicable shirt and trousers. "Put on the stola and let's go."

"You're not changin', neither am I." She folds her arms and glares. "It's bloody see-through."

"Isn't." Once again, the Doctor demonstrates a magnificient failure to grasp the obvious. "It'll be just like that dress of yours. Let's go! People to see, cities to watch burn!" He taps his wrist, exactly where he doesn't wear a watch.

She rolls her eyes. "It's nothin' like. It's see-through. I'm not goin' out there in it. What d'you mean, cities to watch burn?"

Again that mad grin, the one that makes her simultaneously want to pat him and slap him silly. "I've been here before," he explains. "Nero burns the city down today. And look, if Barbara could wear the stola then so can you. She was from 1963 and didn't have quite your… er…" He gestures vaguely in the direction of his chest.

Donna smirks. "Breasts. They're called breasts. Go on, you can say it."

He gives her a Look (not as good as hers, in her objective opinion) and says, "Go on and change, will you?"

Fifteen minutes later, they emerge from the Tardis, Donna triumphantly still in shirt and trousers and the Doctor, grumpy, in a toga.