Stuff. Things. Dr Who.
I got my hair cut back into a proper bob, making me look rather 30s when I push my fringe back, and my manager has been referring to me as 'The Anachronism' ever since, with particular glee when I make stabby motions at the new leads on my computer and go 'OH MY GOD WERE THEY HIGH?'. Seriously, between the guy who refuses to use actual words and the girl who has a magnetic attraction to people whose accounts turn out to be batshit crazy, I am doing this approximately every twenty minutes. B has now started doing it too, because hers, though from a completely different source, have apparently caught the disease.
Anyway, looking round myself right now, he may have a point.
Today I've read Goodbye to Berlin, sorted out random paperwork, replaced a house fuse of the old fashioned ceramic-screws-and-wire variety, watched Argentina and Paraguay crash out of the World Cup, painted my nails a pale and girly pink and my toes a scandalous cherry red, and now I'm listening to the Gaslight Anthem and contemplating my PhD robes hanging up with my Mad Men-style graduation dress in all their hilarious purple and crimson glory (one of the unheralded dangers of attending a Queen's College; someone took the royal connection a tad too seriously and now everyone gets blinded by the doctoral graduands). I may be in the wrong century.
The other thing I was doing was rewatching most of this season of Who. Shush.
I'm even further in love than I thought I was. It's quite bad. Especially with Rory, quite aside from the fact that, as several people have now pointed out, Rory is a lot like my boy. The resemblance is startling but mostly in looks (give Rory blacker hair and bluer eyes and yeah) and the ability to stay calm. Gerry is equally adorable, but a programmer to the core and his affections are more often expressed in fantastically nerdy ways.
Much as I fell hard for Amy when I realised she keeps hairpins in all her pockets, I fell for Rory when I realised that no matter what is thrown at him, the boy will cope. He may argue and complain, but he'll deal with it with what he has to hand, then research it after so he knows what to do again. Which is what I do, and which is why he went 'I read up on temporal physics' and I went 'One of me!' And then he found himself as a Roman soldier and Amy didn't remember him and oh Rory.
I do like that there is a strong implication that both the Doctor and Rory imprinted on Amelia/Amy like baby ducks. They mirror each other beautifully. Rory is what happens when you live with Amy in linear time, the Doctor what happens when you do it out of order. Amy is possibly just a force of nature. Even Amelia is, towing her aunt along behind her with that implacable determination of an eight-year-old on a mission, who hides all day and then knocks over a penguin but takes her older self and a Dalek and a curator with a gun-hand and a magician in a fez completely in her stride and fixes the universe because she believes in stars and can't resist a dare.
(Speaking of, Caitlin Blackwood had clearly grown between filming of the house and the museum. Which means they did those in two chunks at either end, which means Steve Moffat is even more evil than I was giving him credit for and Caitlin will make a killer poker player someday).
Aactually, there's a lot of mirroring going on. Take the roof scene in The Big Bang and in The Eleventh Hour, up to the point where River appears. Look a lot alike, don't they? Except they're completely different, because everyone's that much older and wiser and madder. And then we start rewinding through time and we end up where we started, in Amelia's garden, in the dark.
And the Doctor is as old as we've ever seen him, picking up Amelia, (who's at that age of being really too tall to be carried like that, except when you fall asleep in places you can't be left all night, and the Doctor has done this so many times before) and tucking her into bed with a story, because he's about to fall out of the universe and all he could do on the way was ask Amy to try to remember things he hadn't even said yet. So he tells a story and its not the story of the Doctor, of the runaway Gallifreyan, of the renegade Time Lord. Its the story of a stolen (borrowed) time machine, a battered, ancient blue box, told with all the love and hope in a very old soul. And she does remember.
And bullies the universe into remembering her imaginary friend, who told her about an old, new, borrowed, blue spaceship when she was seven.
Seriously, that's beautiful storytelling, right there. So much makes more sense when you line them all up in the light of the finale. So much more will, I suspect, make sense when we get to next year's finale.
In the meantime, Egyptian Goddess on the Orient Express? Awesome.
Six months to go? Woe.
Ye-es, I need a life, I have been told this.
Anyway, looking round myself right now, he may have a point.
Today I've read Goodbye to Berlin, sorted out random paperwork, replaced a house fuse of the old fashioned ceramic-screws-and-wire variety, watched Argentina and Paraguay crash out of the World Cup, painted my nails a pale and girly pink and my toes a scandalous cherry red, and now I'm listening to the Gaslight Anthem and contemplating my PhD robes hanging up with my Mad Men-style graduation dress in all their hilarious purple and crimson glory (one of the unheralded dangers of attending a Queen's College; someone took the royal connection a tad too seriously and now everyone gets blinded by the doctoral graduands). I may be in the wrong century.
The other thing I was doing was rewatching most of this season of Who. Shush.
I'm even further in love than I thought I was. It's quite bad. Especially with Rory, quite aside from the fact that, as several people have now pointed out, Rory is a lot like my boy. The resemblance is startling but mostly in looks (give Rory blacker hair and bluer eyes and yeah) and the ability to stay calm. Gerry is equally adorable, but a programmer to the core and his affections are more often expressed in fantastically nerdy ways.
Much as I fell hard for Amy when I realised she keeps hairpins in all her pockets, I fell for Rory when I realised that no matter what is thrown at him, the boy will cope. He may argue and complain, but he'll deal with it with what he has to hand, then research it after so he knows what to do again. Which is what I do, and which is why he went 'I read up on temporal physics' and I went 'One of me!' And then he found himself as a Roman soldier and Amy didn't remember him and oh Rory.
I do like that there is a strong implication that both the Doctor and Rory imprinted on Amelia/Amy like baby ducks. They mirror each other beautifully. Rory is what happens when you live with Amy in linear time, the Doctor what happens when you do it out of order. Amy is possibly just a force of nature. Even Amelia is, towing her aunt along behind her with that implacable determination of an eight-year-old on a mission, who hides all day and then knocks over a penguin but takes her older self and a Dalek and a curator with a gun-hand and a magician in a fez completely in her stride and fixes the universe because she believes in stars and can't resist a dare.
(Speaking of, Caitlin Blackwood had clearly grown between filming of the house and the museum. Which means they did those in two chunks at either end, which means Steve Moffat is even more evil than I was giving him credit for and Caitlin will make a killer poker player someday).
Aactually, there's a lot of mirroring going on. Take the roof scene in The Big Bang and in The Eleventh Hour, up to the point where River appears. Look a lot alike, don't they? Except they're completely different, because everyone's that much older and wiser and madder. And then we start rewinding through time and we end up where we started, in Amelia's garden, in the dark.
And the Doctor is as old as we've ever seen him, picking up Amelia, (who's at that age of being really too tall to be carried like that, except when you fall asleep in places you can't be left all night, and the Doctor has done this so many times before) and tucking her into bed with a story, because he's about to fall out of the universe and all he could do on the way was ask Amy to try to remember things he hadn't even said yet. So he tells a story and its not the story of the Doctor, of the runaway Gallifreyan, of the renegade Time Lord. Its the story of a stolen (borrowed) time machine, a battered, ancient blue box, told with all the love and hope in a very old soul. And she does remember.
And bullies the universe into remembering her imaginary friend, who told her about an old, new, borrowed, blue spaceship when she was seven.
Seriously, that's beautiful storytelling, right there. So much makes more sense when you line them all up in the light of the finale. So much more will, I suspect, make sense when we get to next year's finale.
In the meantime, Egyptian Goddess on the Orient Express? Awesome.
Six months to go? Woe.
Ye-es, I need a life, I have been told this.