Today is my sister's birthday. I made sure that I rang her in enough time that I could sit down to watch Dr Who. She's my sister, she understands. My verdict was Ten, in the overcoat and the sandshoes, although Eleven's superb glasses do get an honorable mention.
It's an indicator of my great age that I remember William Hartnell, back in the day, but Patrick Troughton was really the Doctor I grew up with. He was the one with the dark Beatles 'do and the baggie suit. In those days, families were lucky to have one TV set, and the thought of children having their own set would have caused a parliamentary enquiry. Somehow, I was allowed to scare myself silly for 25 minutes a week, with cybermen and daleks, while my parents rolled their eyes. I never did grow out of it, although even I was sorely tested by the McCoy regeneration. Dark days indeed. Thank you, Mr Eccleston.
I'm still a Who tragic, and even at this late stage Two and Ten remain fixed in my affections. Tonight, however, has raised most vexing questions - is Ten Ten, or Eleven? Does that make Eleven Twelve? The Twitterverse will be alive tonight.
While we ponder that, those who aren't keen on Doctors can chat amongst
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