Does the Judge want the details of Martha's many eras of embarrassment, or is it onto the next?

The Judge wants the details.

"More!" barked the Judge.

"But..."

"More evidence!"

"Oh, come on!" Martha struggled against her invisible bonds. She was stuck on display in front of everyone, stark bare naked, with no way to reclaim her dignity. There was no way out. If she wanted to get out of the spotlight, she had to talk.

"Fine," she grumbled. "So the next thing that happened..."

I don't remember much about the next few decades. It was a blur of streaking through London streets, dodging punks and tourists, **** to find somewhere the Angels couldn't catch me and displace me again. I remember at some point I ducked through a wooden door, only to find I'd just walked into a crowded pub. The whole place fell silent, just looking at me. Then they burst into applause.

I couldn't turn and run, so instead I walked up to the bar and ordered a drink. I thought at least in a crowded place like that, the Angels couldn't get me.

Well, they couldn't. But I could see them waiting outside, in the street. I had nowhere to run, and nobody would give me any clothes. I suppose they all thought it was hilarious, a woman stuck nude in a pub for them all to look at. I had to wait there for hours, making small talk with everyone, getting my bottom pinched by men and women alike, hoping the Doctor would show up before the pub closed and I had to start running again.

He didn't.

I did wind up in the sixties, eventually. I don't know if you remember the story about the streaker in the crowd at the Beatles' rooftop concert. I think my photo ended up in Playboy.