John takes a long drag of his cigarette, which stands guard before watery blue eyes giving this bloke the once-over. Something, some snatch of memory or intuition, is biting at the back of his memory. What is it, what is it- oh.

No, he never did give it a half-second's reconsideration, whether there'd be posh twats in space.

A grin, nicotine-stained. "So you're on holiday?"

(Was John asked a question? Pardon him; must've missed it.)