Dear Mr. Moffat,
Unfortunately, despite my greatest attempts at the contrary, I must admit that I am a little angry with you. One of the most exciting days of recent years for me was discovering that you were going to take over the mantle of Doctor Who. Let's face it, Russell T. Davies was the only man who could have brought back the Doctor with such flair and style, but Blink had been the greatest episode of recent history (if you can even talk about recent history in such a timey wimey show), The Empty Child and Doctor Dances not far behind, and I thought this is it. This is a new era and it's going to be remarkable.
I think though that it should have been clear that the show was not to be too good, that I should not have to spend my nights and days twisting and rolling plots and timelines inside my head in order to try and crack mysterious codes, and clues, and whispered cryptic statements. I should not have to - along with many others - suffer the almost unendurable indignity of self-imposing Twitter and Facebook boycotts because, sweetie, I had to avoid all spoilers. I should not have to dread tuning in each week because I know, soon, that when I switch off it will be months before I get to press the button that brings the world of Doctor Who to life again.
I grew up in a town whose library had a very limited video collection, which consisted mostly of old dusty tapes of Shakespeare and serialised Jane Austen specials. There was however some dark soul in the upper echelons of the library elite, who had made sure that the video section did have one shelf that defied the adaptation of the literary masters. Close to the ground, where my ten year-old hands could grab them, was a set of Doctor Who tapes as complete as you could get at the time, two rows of black VHS, cracked and dusty from overuse, but disregarding minor glitches still perfect to watch.
It was my brother who first brought home Sylvester McCoy to visit. The new ones were always the ones you went for first, it wasn't necessarily because they were better, but a child can smell the age of a video, and the new ones always seemed more exciting. I can remember the first episodes I saw - Ghost Light, and then The Greatest Show In the Galaxy. I didn't really understand what was going on a lot of the time, I was confused and scared, but the strange man in the odd clothes - the hat, the scarf, the umbrella, and question-marks on all - he was funny, and interesting, and he seemed to know more than he spoke, which is always compelling to watch. More than anything he was cool, and unthreatening, and unwavering, and even before finding out he had two hearts and a time machine I quite simply liked to hang out with him. He was like a mad old grandpa, a whirl of knowledge and experience and ideas, and an unignorable force of joy and adventure.
And then for my fourteenth birthday I got the ultimate gift. The adventure was not over, and the Doctor would be back. A merry band of social outcasts, we gathered around the TV and suddenly Doctor Who was not the past, it was not something that happened to other people, it was ours, and happening right now, and we held our breath with the rest of the world - scheming and hypothesising and hoping and watching.
It is not easy to be 21, a legal adult in every sense, and still be obsessed with Doctor Who in a way that not even the children I know understand. But I consider it a testament to the power of storytelling that on the worst days in the the worst weeks, I am still reminded that the Doctor will soon be in the house, and that more beautiful, original and captivating television is never far away.
It is one of my fondest dreams that one day, like you, like Douglas Adams and Terry Nation and Gareth Roberts, and all the great Who writers before you - I will have the chance to see my name fly across the screen in that vortex of colour, that I will hear the Doctor speak and be able to say "Those are my words… He's saying my words!" and give back to the universe of Doctor Who some small echo and memento of what it has given me. Until then however, the show remains a constant and enduring inspiration, a champion to the power of imagination, and the absolute highlight of my television viewing.
I cannot imagine a world without the Doctor, he is everything I could possibly hope to be, and the show is everything I could possibly hope to create. It keeps getting better and better, and as much as its brilliance is a curse, as much as the feeling of being gripped by its story is so overpowering, so all-encompassing that when the credits roll and you have to step back into the real world you feel like something's missing…
… don't you dare bloody stop. I'm really quite enjoying it.