Plague, fire, disaster. Just nearly ran into an old incarnation of himself as he helped soon-to-be-Sir Richard Mace fight the flames. Alien-inhanced plague carriers destroyed, all evidence of alien presence eliminated.
Not bad for a day's work.
Humming a tune and dusting ash off of his coat, the Doctor fumbled for the keys to his TARDIS, parked not far off the edge of the village. Ah, the sounds of people rejoicing in life. Crying in pain, too, but one should try to think of the good in every situation, even disaster.
As he approached his beloved police telephone box-shaped time ship, it was very easy to notice that something was wrong with the top of it. It looked oddly-shaped from the distance he was at and, as he got closer, he could see that something---no, someone was perched atop it.