It has been several months since my visit to Wales and my final defeat of the Doctor.
Despite the absence of my floppy haired alter ego life has not been quiet. I’ve been catching up on my reading and listening in order to prepare new reviews for Cawley now that the main series has finished, I’ve been instrumental in several campaigns of terror and intimidation, I’ve been hunting miniature schnauzers, I’ve ventured onto email, Twitter and Facebook. Oh and I’ve been writing my Christmas cards. You do acquire an awful lot of acquaintances when you’ve traversed all of time and space for as long as I have.
Yet something seems to be lacking. It’s almost as if I’ve lost more than a small bit of myself with the premature demise of my younger self. Now, it’s not as if I’ve not lost bits and pieces of my history before. Why I’m reading all about that just now in Father Time, apart from feeling the need to cry an awful lot I seem to have coped just fine that time.
Maybe it’s just that the challenge was buoying my spirits more than I cared to admit. Oh well.
“Ahem, Sir.” Still, at least I still have Lord Stormageddon.
“I rather believe you should be watching BBC One just now, Sir.” He’s rarely wrong so I motivate myself to switch on the television set.
What greets me is an alive, yet trapped, younger regeneration. The fool! Not only has he got himself trapped, but he’s calling on the ginger one to come and save him? Bah! Good luck with that plan.
And then, just as I’m starting to get drawn into proceedings the whole spaceship explodes. This will not do, I shall have to finish him off myself.
Even if I’m going to have to wait until Christmas to do so.