Craig had another busy morning pushing trolleys, emptying vans, and carrying sacks of vegetables. At lunch-time he was nearly finished and ready to go for a wash. He walked over to the top end of the Garden to a van that sold the best tea. Although he could make tea on the stove in Martha's flat, he preferred to wait for her to be there so they could enjoy the pot of tea together, but she would probably still be delivering flowers around the theaters for another couple of hours.

The man in the van usually served the market staff before any passing tourists, whether or not there was a queue. Craig nodded across the small crowd in the approved manner and was passed a large mug of steaming hot tea with his usual two teaspoons of sugar. "Nice one."

As he blew carefully on the thick brew, one of the older boys, Parkinson, who usually ignored him approached and pushed his shoulder. "What are you doing now, Fatso? You look like you've got nothing to do." Parkinson wore a long jacket and mud-caked boots.

Craig steadied the hand holding the mug of tea. "I'm going to get cleaned up. Most of us are done by noon. Including you. What seems to be the problem?"

"I think you need to lose a bit of weight," said Parkinson looking him up and down.

"No thanks. I love my body as it is," Craig joked. He slapped his left palm against the center of his chest. "Why are you so interested in my rude health?"

Parkinson's nostrils flared. "None of that soft talk. I've heard all about your mouth. Do you want to play or not? A straight answer please."

"Oh, you're asking are you? Play? Play what?" A soft thud on the back of his head gave him his answer. A heavy football bounced off down the street and was pursued by another of the young vegetable assistants.

Parkinson scowled at the receding figure. "A bit of footie, you idiot. What else? The lads who help the fruit sellers have been getting a bit cocky. Blocking the paths and pissing behind our sheds. We need to sort out who's boss. Are you in? You'd better be. Veg versus fruit."

Craig nodded. "Oh yes. A grudge match," he said. "You can't beat a bit of aggro. Game on. We can't let the strawberry patch kids foul our pitch, can we?"

"That's more like it," Parkinson replied. "We'll be at the front of the Jubilee Hall in an hour. Bring biscuits. No need to wash." He pointed into Craig's face. "And keep your funny talk to yourself." He snorted with contempt.

He sloped away, scuffing his boots roughly on the grime of the cobbles.

"A bit of politeness wouldn't go amiss," Craig said to himself. But he was looking forward to kicking the ball about. He liked the idea of heading the ball into the goal and stretched his neck to practice.

:::

A voice from behind caught his attention. "Craig!" He turned with his tea still in his hand. A grimy figure was pushing his way out from behind some metal bins in the lane behind the tube station.

"It's me." The Doctor lifted the cloth cap off his head to reveal his tangled hair. "It's the Doctor." He smiled.

Craig nodded and chuckled. "Yes. It's less of a surprise this time. I do know you're here, but why are you hiding in that lane? Were you sleeping back there?" He tilted his head to the gloomy delivery lane.

The Doctor fixed the cap back on his head. "No. Just a nap. I had a bit of business up at the Arsenal tube. I've been trying to persuade someone local to take the tiki-toki off my hands, but nothing came of it and I felt a little tired on the way back. I think the tiki-toki are draining my energy. Directly, I mean. "

"Well, stop chasing them then," said Craig. "It seems obvious. They're no problem to anyone else but you."

The Doctor grumbled. "They seem to be so determined to catch my attention. And they surely can't be up to any good."

"Come play football," said Craig. "Kicking the ball about solves a lot of problems." He mimed a solid strike with his right foot.

The Doctor smiled and jogged his arms up and down. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt. Do you have the necessary colored tops?"

"No. Nothing formal. We're just playing shirts v. skins."

"How primitive. What sorts of animal skins have you gathered?" The Doctor looked alarmed.

"No. 'Skins' means your own skin, Doctor." He sipped the sweet tea and tapped his fingers against his cheek.

Self-consciously, the Doctor held his hands up to his chest. "You don't mean naked do you?"

"Ha. Just the top half, you lemon." Craig slapped him lightly across the chest. "It's still the Sixties. No-one will look twice."

"Let's just choose 'shirts' though," the Doctor smiled. "I have an excellent shirt right here. And we can form a killer partnership. Without killing anyone of course."

Craig shook his head vigorously. "Nah. We can't play with the shirts, Doctor. Those veg boys have been disrespecting my mates, even the ones I hate. It's 'skins' for me. And we need your mad soccer skills to destroy them."

The Doctor frowned. "I thought you disapproved of the word 'soccer'?"

Craig sighed. "It's fine when used with other words like 'mad' and 'skills'. Don't ask any more questions. Are you going to kick the ball or not?" He raised his eyebrows up and down twice in a persuasive manner.

"Yes," he nodded.

Craig pointed back to the market with his mug. "Time for a drink of the hot stuff, then over to the loading bays."

"But shirted," the Doctor whispered under his breath. "And you'll need to provide more of the local money. I spent the last of mine on bird food. A complete waste of time."