Did anyone else see last week's 'Doctor Who'? The one with the Dream Lord and the dying Tardis and all? Brilliant, wasn't it? Ah, I do love a good story, and Doctor Who, on a good day and with a good writer, can come up with some of the best story lines in the world.
Anyway, this is a blog about Doctor Who, because I wanted to use the title, and Simon Nye wrote 'Amy's Choice', the story of which I speak. So, anyone unfamiliar with said Doctor, or anyone who thinks it is a Programme Just for Kids, can come back next week when I shall have something pithy and witty to say about something we will definitely have in common. Like chocolate or shoes or something. But, for this week, those of you still with me will know where I'm coming from.
So, read on, good reader who also likes Doctor Who. The rest of you, go away now. Stop hanging round, peering over the fence all sad-eyed like puppies that have been shouted at. I've told you, next blog will having something for you. Go on! And don't do that face!
Oh, all right, stay if you must. Here, sit next to me and keep quiet. And especially do not pipe up about Daleks. There is more to Doctor Who than Daleks, as you will learn, good reader, if you pay attention.
I'm starting to like Matt Smith in a way I never thought possible. Once the tears of little Davey T's departure had cleared from my eyes I thought, along with millions of other women, I could never love a Time Lord again. Oh, Woe Was Us! But as a replacement we got this leggy weirdo, with a face like plastic that's been out in the sun for too long, and hair like a badly-thatched seventeenth century pub. And, oh, the wacky! How I did not like the wacky! But then some serious moments crept in. And I found that Mister Smith of the oddly-moulded face and the never-meeting knees had a wonderful way with the deep stillness of someone who has had Very Bad Things happen to him, and I was bowled over. In a good way, obviously, and it's hard to be bowled over by a man whose legs look like they've been nailed on.
So I am once more entranced. That's en-tranced, not like I've had a new door put in. Enthralled, if you will. And this week I got Silurians (hello, old enough to remember them first time round), and a lovely, low-key view of Future Wales (disused churches, orange trees in the front gardens and audio books as standard). And the delectably runny Matt Smith being all cool and floppy.
Nice. That's all I'm saying. Nice.
And next time there will be shoes. And maybe even bags as well.
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