[In the life of the Doctor there are good days, and there are bad days. Sometimes, when he's feeling down, the TARDIS (who has a very long memory), takes over the viewscreen and reminds him of the good days.]
A giant eye was all that could be seen at first, then it drew back to reveal a weathered face under a mop of silver hair, one eye magnified by the lens worn over it. "TARDIS recording matrix," the man said, turning it a various angles. "Your eyes seem to be working well enough, old girl, even if you can't reach temporal orbit anymore. Shame the same can't be said of mine." He polished the device against his red jacket and replaced it under the console, then began carefully extricating a different component whilst humming "Donna E Mobile" cheerfully to himself.
A young girl with blonde hair and a simple blue dress entered the console room. "Oh, hello Doctor!" she said, spotting the man; he, startled by her sudden interruption, banged his head against the inside of the console. "Ow! Careful, Jo," the Doctor's muffled voice replied.
"Sorry," the girl cringed as the Doctor carefully exited the mass of wires, rubbing his head. "The Brigadier asked me to tell you he wants to meet with us. He'd like to know if you want breakfast brought up."
"What's on the menu?" the Doctor said, setting the eyepiece and the mechanism he'd been removing on top of the time rotor.
"Eggs and bacon, I think,"
"Ugh, no. Not the way they do eggs here. Please don't touch that, it's fragile."
"What's wrong with the eggs here?" Jo asked, backing away from the console a step. She was not the most graceful around delicate things, and didn't want to further break the already stranded TARDIS.
"They're Earth eggs!" the Doctor complained. "Far too much white and not enough yolk, not to mention the complete absence of any cors'ca. Now, Venusian eggs, those are proper eggs."
"I'm sure the cook wouldn't mind using less white for you," Jo offered.
"And they cook them wrong, too," the Doctor said, ignoring this. "Always boiled or fried or scrambled…"
"Why, how do you like your eggs?"
"Blasted."
"What?" Jo said, taken aback.
"If those infernal Time Lords hadn't impounded the old girl, I would take you for Frellian blasted eggs. They're cracked open twelve feet in the air, and shot with a low-intensity infrared beam until they land, fully cooked, on the plate. Makes them moist and juicy. Delicious.
"As it is, though, I find myself quite sick of Earth cuisine." The Doctor said firmly. "Tell the Brigadier no, thank you."
Before Jo could respond, Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart himself entered, with three plates of scrambled eggs on toast and bacon on a trolley. "I heard you were both in here, so I thought I'd bring the food and join you," he began. Then, noticing the Doctor's expression, added, "Is something the matter?"
"The Doctor says he doesn't like Earth food," Jo informed him.
The Brigadier did not look impressed. "Yes, well, I'm sorry Doctor, but UNIT needs its scientific advisor in good condition."
"I'm more than capable of functioning without food, Brigadier," the Doctor said curtly.
"Doctor!" exclaimed Jo, shocked. "You can't miss breakfast! It's the most important meal of the day!"
"Quite so, miss Grant," the Brigadier nodded. "Eat, Doctor. That's an order."
The Doctor turned and looked at the concerned expressions of two people who, unlike the members of his own people who had abandoned him here, cared enough to make sure he was eating well.
"Well," the Doctor smiled. "I suppose there are at least a couple of good eggs on this planet." He pulled a chair over to the trolley, as did the other two. "Let's eat."