The Girl in the Fireplace
I'VE developed a brand new affliction.
It's not Doctor Who. That's a condition I've had since my mum was painting the living room door (flat on the floor, to avoid any drips) in the spring of '81. Five feet away a four-year old boy was transfixed by the TARDIS shrinking to an nth of its usual size with Tom Baker trapped inside. No, my condition is something I suspect others are experiencing every Saturday night right now. It's called 'Worrying too much about people around me liking Doctor Who to kick back on the sofa and enjoy it for what it is'. I won't bore you with the Latin name.
It's been creeping up on me throughout series two and last night it developed into the full-blown fidgets during 'The Girl in the Fireplace'.
Why I'm worrying, I don't know. I could sit through 'TGI The Fireplace' (Did Billie get that in the divorce?) right now with an inane grin across my face while a certain minister's son from Paisley rightfully took centre stage and his understanding co-star slid into the shadows for the second consecutive episode.
One reason Doctor Who is so successful this time round is that it's only interested in telling stories. That four-year-old boy mentioned earlier was transfixed by a shrinking TARDIS, not block computation thingummies. And this was a beautifully told, beautifully shot fairytale.
The other time the Doc stepped into Once Upon a Time territory was 'The Mind Robber', and there are some similarities between the Clockwork Soldiers who tick-tocked their way through the Land of Fiction and the Harlequin androids which went on a cogtastic rampage through Versailles - and a lot more could have been made of them holding that posh party to siege. They were introduced brilliantly, though. How many youngsters have checked beneath their beds for a Marshman or Melkur in their formative years?
This was the slowest paced episode I have seen for some time, relying on the relationship between Madame De Pompadour and the Doctor to carry the story rather than tense cliffhangers popping up every six minutes or so. This may have been the reason my new affliction hung round my head so easily this time around.
Shame on me. The whole thing was super fun. Even the Doctor getting a bit sloshed wasn't as toe-curling as it could have been, and Mickey is gradually getting more likeable. After Rose's prickliness towards Dame Sladen last week, it's a relief this wasn't cut-and-pasted to her feelings about the other other-half joining her in blue box life.
It's a nice twist that the viewers got to know the significance of Madame De P to the androids' (now we know how Kiss would have looked if a member of the French aristocracy had dreamed them up) plane, but not team TARDIS. I just hope the SS Madame De Pompadour has a twin vessel out there called the Good Ship Parker Bowles. Bet loads of blokes have sailed in that one.
But - where the creme de menthe did that horse come from?
And, I know it wasn't in this episode, but I have to get it off my chest. What's the difference between Torchwood and UNIT? I digress.
At the end of the episode, my fellow viewer turned to me and said: "That was *really* good!" I had to agree, and was thus flummoxed as to why I'd spent the first four-fifths of the episode with a sinking feeling sloshing down my innards.
I've had a lie down. I've taken my pills. By golly, I do believe this new affliction of mine has finally run its course.
 
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