Relaxed Parents

I really should write a fanmail or something to Russell T. Davies, the man who brought Doctor Who back from the abyss of murdered shows (and make no mistake, the Beeb murdered Doctor Who and then ganged up with Stephen Spielberg to give the corpse a good kicking).

I realised this on Saturday night, watching the second episode of this season’s finale with dudelet perched on my knees.

Be warned, this is going to get emotional.

I loved Doctor Who when I was child (a little older than dudelet is at the moment, admittedly).  I desperately wanted to be a Timelord.  I suppose my ultimate Doctor Who memory would be the image of Tom Baker as the Fourth Doctor in the series “Genesis of the Daleks” holding the two wires in his hands that, once connected, would destroy the race of Daleks at birth and save countless billions and deciding that he hadn’t the right to commit genocide, has haunted me for more than thirty years.  This in a show, made for children and shown at tea-time.

I learned more about the ambiguity and difficulty (and plain impossibility at times) of making the right decision from Doctor Who (and from that particular moment, in fact) than I ever did in church, the confessional or R.E. lessons.

And now, dudelet and I watch it together and in a weird, small way, I’m finally a Timelord, in that through this strange, entrancing piece of art, I feel that my childhood self is directly engaging with my young son.  It’s not like watching any ordinary show.  It’s time-defying link between two children who otherwise would never have met and its very precious.

So Russell T. Davies, thank you.  From the bottom of my heart.