Oh, thanks very much Mr. Moffat!
Yeah, thank you very bloody much Mr. Steven Moffat - the lead writer and showrunner of Doctor Who - it is you that I blame for the head and neck ache that I currently have, as well as the mild level of tiredness that I’m experiencing right now. How could you, you utter, utter bastard?!
For just a little over five years now, my wife and I have had to share our room with our children, first Mana, then when we managed to get her into her own room, Alex came along. I’m not blaming Steven for that, that was actually our fault. Well, not exactly a fault, but you know what I mean. Anyway, the point is that for the last five years our sleep has been slightly affected by younglings who mutter, fart, snore, toss and turn, giggle (that’s rather amusing actually) and make grating, repetitive sucky noises while they sleep blissfully unaware that their parents are right next to them with bloodshot eye balls as a direct reaction to the nocturnal disruptive rumblings.
Anyway… The other day we had a major break through. I dismantled Alex’s cot and straight afterwards it was given away for free to someone who could make use of it. Alex was upset, I was a little bit too as this was a huge turning point for him, but he now had no choice but to leave our bedroom and join his sister in what is now their room and spend each night in that bunk bed that we bought a fair old while ago. This of course now meant that the wife and I finally had our room back to ourselves, suddenly it felt big, spacious and adult – quiet too. Very quiet. We could finally spend a night without interruption, drama or any other child related issues and simply have a restful night’s sleep for the first time in an absolute age. Or that was the plan at any rate.
Then this happened.
The final episode of this year’s segment of season 7 of the new run of Doctor Who. The Angels take Manhattan.
Curse you Mr. Moffat. Curse your eyes, curse your brain, curse your ability to write, type and otherwise communicate your ideas to the wider public in any fashion that you care to mention. Because of you and your emotional rollercoaster of an episode, this morning I am feeling the way that I am as described earlier. I would like you to come to my house or give me a call and damned well apologise. Then I will grudgingly thank you for an exceptional episode, in spite of the ructions that it has caused us.
As the programme came to an end and Amy and Rory bowed out for the final time with no way of returning, the eruption of tears from Mt. Mana started and carried on for hours. FOR HOURS!!!!
We tried everything to calm her down, but she was inconsolable. I even took to explaining timelines, time travel and how depending on where you are in time itself, those who are in the past may be dead to us, but to them, they are alive and we aren’t even born yet – it’s just a point of view in the temporal scale of things and actually, she understood that. The issue was that she’d never see them again. Of course she could, we have the DVDs.
What was heart breaking was when things turned serious. She actually asked us that if she killed herself, would she be able to be with Amy and Rory? At this point I had to stress once more that Doctor Who isn’t real, it’s just a story and that Matt Smith, Karren Gillan and Arthur Darville are just actors who play the parts of the characters in the show, just like how she roleplays fictional characters at school during break time with her friends. She was understanding, but still not happy. All she wanted to do was to see them – not on the telly or on the computer, but for real, just to reassure herself that they really were still all okay. How the hell could I help her with that? There’s no way! It’s at times like this that I feel a bit of a failure as her Father. One little piece of reassuring evidence would go a long way for her, but I cannot help her in this instance.
So, the reason for my aches, pains and exhaustion this morning? Well, after the distress caused by that episode of Doctor Who, our rather tall five year old daughter needed the company of her parents throughout the night and thusly spent it with us, taking up most of the room in our bed which resulted in her Mother and Father perched on the very edge of the mattress at the extreme limit of comfort, risking life and limb under the threat of falling out and landing in an undignified heap on the cold bedroom floor. To add insult to injury, the only way that I could get any room on the horizontal plane was to have my head resting on my bedside table – mmm, very comfortable and just what you need to be doing to promote a good night’s sleep.
And now you know why I blame Mr. Moffat.
Is there anything else that can be sent out to test me today? Not really, unless of course you count the fact that my almost three year old son is currently sat next to me watching Despicable Me whilst sucking his dummy, clutching four Upsy Daisy dollies and wearing one of his sister’s dresses. Yeah, everything’s perfectly normal here today.