For immigrants, care packages from home are an unparalleled delight. From friends and family, I’ve received squash (they don’t drink it in the US), cotton buds and even a very distinctive brand of stock cube (think famous London tower). I look for home in nonphysical things, too: I have the BBC World Service on in the evenings, and every weekend I’ve been reimmersing myself in another uniquely British creature: the not-quite-geriatric, 54-year-old sci-fi TV show, Doctor Who.
Doctor Who was my first TV fright. I remember being seven years old, hiding behind our maroon sofa, holding tight to my sister’s hand as we waited for a terrifying alien life form to exit the screen. I’m a zealous, lifelong fan (once exhibiting my fandom by means of a Tom Baker-inspired scarf). But love waxes and wanes, and my joy at the Russell T Davies reboot had soured by the latter stages of the Eleventh Doctor (Matt Smith). My interest in the Twelfth (Peter Capaldi) was patchy – until this season, with the introduction of new companion Bill, played by Pearl Mackie. She’s a shot of joy, the best thing to happen to the show in a while – funny, sharp and just wide-eyed enough – and she infuses the whole endeavour with real glee, a reminder, perhaps, that this is a children’s show as well as a multimillion-pound cultural juggernaut. The writing seems to have calmed down a bit, too.
Most pleasingly, this season has seen subtle but effective references to race and sexuality (Bill likes girls, it’s not a big deal), all alongside the bigger arc around the Doctor’s story.
So yes, I’m feeling major Doctor Who love once more. Let’s not part again.
