Naturally I'm very worried about everything Clara just told me. And about Clara too. Don't get me wrong, I'm extremely proud she took the initiative and went and saw all of these important developments happening, but I'd really rather I'd been there with her for it. Even in spirit, or on the phone or something. No, I'm very worried indeed, about an awful lot right now.

There is, however, something that has to be done before we go chasing after basement monsters and stone stairs on space stations and huge brass-and-copper apparatuses. We need to get Jessica back on side. Now more than ever we need her back on side. If I'm going to go chasing after the aforementioned monsters and such, I'd much rather do it with a very protective and perpetually armed young lady between me and him.

What's that you say? Don't encourage her to use her armaments? Bad influence, when she's trying to be peacable these days?

Yeah, see, I thought of all that. Then I imagined the look on her face when I tell that Professor Carling has had some part in this. And then I told myself just to shut up and stay out of her way, so I don't honestly believe my encouragement or otherwise is going to make one single jot of a difference, do you?

Anyway, she has a valuable position; she's an award winner, on the inside, a potential victim of this 'harvest' business who will be canny to the scam. Jessica's going to be very useful to me.

As soon as she's talking to me again.

And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is why I'm standing under the window of a young student's dormitory bedroom in a toga and with an olive wreath about my head. Well, I couldn't find a traditional olive wreath. Had to make it out of green tinsel. That's alright though; that's the effect I'm going for.

On the way over here, I learned my speech, and gathered quite a following, who have assembled to… so far they're mostly giggling. Soon, however, they will be listening to me. First they'll laugh. Then they're be impressed. Then I'll leave them with something to really properly think about. Wait and see, that's exactly how it will go.

Clara has disowned me. She's still by my side, but now she's about four feet away from it. She's blushing to the point where it looks very much as though she might pop a few blood vessels in her face, looking thoroughly scandalised.

Good. All the better for making my point. I'm glad she's ashamed of me. I revel in Clara's shame.

A milk crate has been provided by a kindly member of the student body, to keep the hem of my toga off the ground. It's gotten rather grubby just on the way over here. Still, look on the bright side; it would have been worse if my toga were white. It's a rather charming, dusty rose sort of a pink. It was the only sheet I could find and it is absolutely perfect for my purposes, so don't say a word, please.

A scattering of gravel is provided by another helpful hand. One by one, I pelt the little stones at the right window. "Oi! Apple! Moody-face! Oi! Window! Open window! Oi!"

I'm running out of gravel when the sash starts to lift. To my dismay, the face that appears in the gap is not my dear Miss Apple, but her… friend from before. "Listen," he begins, "she says to go awaoh, my dear sweet Jesus..." He stops, mid-message, and reaches across the window, shaking a shoulder. He stops shouting, so I can't hear him, but it looks like he's trying to help. Trying to get her to look out.

Just the very edge of a little head peers around the window frame. Which is all the attention I need. I clear my throat, hitch the folds of my toga and begin.

This speech is given by Marc Anthony, in the third act of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. Not to spoil the end or anything, but he gives it at the funeral of a pretty major character. Well… Maybe this won't be a verbatim performance of that particular speech…

"Friends!" I announce, to this motley assemblage, "Friends, Romans-" Jessica throws herself head and shoulders out the window, hanging on the ledge to look around even at her feet, scanning the crowd, "No, love, he's not here… Hold on, I'll start again…"

"…Friends, Romans, Jellybabies!"

"Oh my God," Clara mutters, and hides her head in her hands, "He's serious about this."

Despite this rudeness, and the laughter of the students, I continue, "Lend me your lug-nuts! I come to borrow Caesar, not to put down a deposit on him."

This loses me the interest of a number of Legionalia Cultists from down the back, whose religion holds up Caesar as a minor saint. It's alright though; the more I say, the more are gathering around me. I'm not going to miss those few.

"The weasels that men catch will tickle them. The stoats are oft a bit more stoic about things. So let it be with Caesar. The cola-flavoured Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambiguous-"

"Yeah, we heard that about him!" Bu the Legionalia students are the ones getting heckled, not me. When the cult of Rome sprang up, so did the cult of Hannibal. You can imagine, maybe, they're not the best of friends.

Trying not to laugh along with the general mass, "If it were so, it was a squeaky letterbox, and squeakily hath Caesar sent letters! Here, under skirts of Brutus and the rest – for Brutus is a cola cube; so are they all, all cola cubes – come I to blabber at Caesar's TV movie marathon-"

Finally, now that I've mentioned sweets, it feels safe to risk a glance up from my rapt audience to the true object of this recital. Jessica is still hanging where she was when she got all excited about potential Romans. Now one hand is propping up her face. The other is swinging limply out the window. Her companion – oh, no, scratch that, I can't mutter that word sarcastically, I love it too much – her attentive bloke (much better) has one hand on her back. I believe he is playing with the ends of her hair. Which is my job and doubtless he does it with no such purity of thought as me. My thought about that is always ooh, there's some soft, curly ends, let's play with them. Doubtless, absolutely doubtless, he is thinking something quite different.

But it does look like she's smiling, a little bit. Which is a start.

I break character to ask her, "Do you get it yet?"

I wish she'd shout back. She doesn't. She mumbles something to her friend and he shouts, "She wants to know if she can have one of Caesar's cola cubes if he doesn't need them anymore."

"You can have them all, love; he's dead." Which, at the very least, gets another cheer from the Hannibalites.

I've started now, I suppose. And these people gathered round, they know it's a joke. They're laughing with me. I turn my attention back to them, telling them all about the general coffees and the Loopy Cow and Root-Based Feasts (with carrot cake for afters, obviously). It's rather excellent, you know, this speech of mine and Marc Anthony's. It goes down well. It would go down a lot better if I could properly concentrate it. I can't, though. In the background, Jessica's mate is pointing happily down at mine.

"You Clara?" he calls.

"Wishing I wasn't!"

"You here with him?"

"No. No, we've never met. I just helped him get here. He said he knew his way back to the asylum, but then he put the toga on. Never seen him in my life before today. Me good Samaritan, him complete lunatic, alright?"

And because I am about to finish and I need all the attention I can possibly get and they are distracting peoplefrom me, "Clara Oswin Oswald, will you kindly shut up!? And you up there and all!"

They each draw away, giving me the same wary eyes and raised hands. I nod, sharply, accepting their defeat.

Then I clear my throat one last time.

"My spider is in the sweet-shop there with Caesar," I cry, with all the mourning and wounded pride that ought be given to these immortal words, "And I must pause, or Pacman shall be eaten by the ghosts."

I lower my head, draw in my hands, to show that I have finished here. The crowd erupts, cheering, applauding. I take as few bows as is polite and reasonable. Then, while they're still going, I look back up to Jessica at her window.

Communication requires cupping my hands around my mouth, bellowing like a foghorn. "You see? It doesn't matter what you say! They're students, Jessica, they'll cheer for anything. Watch this –" To the gathered around my milk crate I say, "Yay for crisps!"

They go up in a fresh wave, celebrating the simple joy of very thin slices of fried potato dusted with various flavourings.

"Yay for cake!"

Cake is a less culturally-specific term than crisps, and works them up to a roar.

"Yay for Jooglemuellers!" Which is a word I just made up, but they don't know that anymore, and if I'm not careful, I could leave here with a cult of my own.

I shrug at the young lady above. That mate of hers is laughing so hard at this that her back is the only thing holding him up. Clara is still by my feet, still shielding her face as though even to look upon me is death, and murmuring over and over, "I'm not with him, I'm not with him, I'm not with him…"