My five-year-old son adores The Doctor.
He wants to style his hair like his, has asked for a pair of Converse trainers like his and insists that his Sonic Screwdriver is “way cooler than anything Batman’s got”.
The return of Doctor Who was not so much cheered in our house – our whole day had to be planned around it.
Mum: “Do you want pasta for tea?”
Dan: “Will you be able to cook it before Dr Who comes on?”
You get the picture.
I know there have been rumblings among fanboys that the sci-fi drama is a little camp these days and has a much lighter, jokey tone, but it means every Saturday night Daniel and I get to shush Daddy and Mia out of the Tardis den we’ve made in the living room (his requirement, not mine) and bond over the best fun on TV.
You would think he would be terrified of the likes of the Cybermen, the pigs from the Darlek episode and the quite franky terrifying angels from the previous series, but no, he loves them one and all.
And his verdict on this week’s cute little Adipose bundles of human fat (I mean, how revolting is that? Not sure I’d want to meet their parents either): “so gross – I loved it!”
It can get a bit complicated at times with having to explain, well everything pretty much. Me (big gasp): “It’s Rose!” Dan: “Who?” But otherwise it’s TV gold.
Every Saturday morning I am a rugby widow as the boys do their thing on a frozen pitch.
Now every Saturday night Daddy becomes a Dr Who widower as Danny and I bed in for 45-minutes of sci-fi genius. (It helps that the Doctor is a bit of all right too . . . )