The kids have recently discovered Dr. Who (thanks to Netflix), so this was the family entertainment of choice tonight. We all squished together on the couch to watch David Tennant brandishing a sonic screwdriver and rescuing Billie Piper who'd had her face sucked off by Maureen Lipman via a 1950s television screen. Like you do.
Our family being rather late to the party, there's a huge backlog of episodes to be got through (and we're only talking ninth doctor onwards here, never mind all the original series). The Man and I have only joined in viewing a few, but the Girl in particular has been indulging in daily festivals of Who.
The plot-lines are barking. Also (to me at least) strangely soporific, in spite of all the explosions and shouty aliens. Back in the day I used to find Dr. Who so terrifying I'd have to hide my face in a cushion in fear. Now it seems I'm more likely to lay my head down on the cushion and have a little snooze.
Ageing has some few comforts!
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