“You’re terrible at this,” Clara said exasperatedly, waving a dish towel to air out the smoke from the burnt cookies in the oven.

“What do you mean, I did exactly as I was told,” Twelve huffed. “You told me to watch the cookies.”

“Yes, but not literally just watch them! When the timer goes off, you take them out!”

“You should have included that in your initial instructions.”

“God, you’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

Clara picked out a couple of salvageable cookies and put them on a small plate, disappointed at the meagre amount. 

“This’ll have to do then. Go on, have a taste.”

“But they’re burnt.”

“Uh, and who’s fault is that? Take off you sunglasses, and you’ll see how really burnt they are.”

Twelve picked one out and nibbled on the end of it, scrunching his face in disgust. “Far too burnt.”

“Well, I think they’re fine,” Clara said, biting into one. A split second passed before her face contorted too. “No, you’re right. Far too burnt.”

“I’m always right.”

“Yeah, sure. Here,” she tossed him a flowery pink apron form the cupboards.

"Why do I need this?”

“We’re making a new batch, Grandpa, and you’re helping me. Get up.”