Today, along with most of the rest of the world, I will be glued to my telly to watch the 50th anniversary episode of Dr Who. My two favorite Doctors, side by side. Be still my heart.
I'm very late to join Who-mania. I only came aboard in the past year thanks to Netflix when I discovered the relative hotness of Dr. Number Ten. He was MY Doctor. There could be no other until.....
....Doctor Number Eleven showed up in my queue.
In case you are wondering, ( and I would have been if reading this at this time last year) The Doctor rides around in this blue box, going in and out of time, finding adventure and people to save everywhere he goes. You get hooked because it's really just a soap opera in space. Yes, the monsters are cool and the plots are all twisty-wisty but what you are really watching is the love stories that are woven in and out of the series as a whole. Never count anyone out. They always seem to pop up again when you least expect them and it always makes you cry big, blubbery tears.
I hate to admit it but I am old enough to remember this Doctor. It was on PBS during the afterschool hours and I hated it. Old men fighting with monsters made of cardboard boxes-no thank you. I had Dark Shadows to watch. Hot vampire dudes trumped old men with funny accents in weird hats.
Now I have to face the fact that my lovely alien eye candy will regenerate into this guy in the near future. That's how it works. Doctors become other Doctors and you have to adjust. I am certainly not against men of..ahem...a certain age but there better not be anymore young hot babes as companions (yes, I am talking to you Clara). I better see some ladies of that same certain age manning that TARDIS along side Number Twelve. Seriously.