I practically grew up on regular episodes of Dr Who. Patrick Troughton and Jon Pertwee (the second and third Doctors) were My Doctors.
When we decided to cave in and buy a bloody telly with DSTV , it still took me a couple of years to register that this longest-running of all science fiction series was still showing.
I watched an episode with some trepidation - after all, I categorise Dr Who as a series for children - and then another one, and another. Soon, I was watching every week, and not enjoying the jarring disconnect of switching over to an American-made offering immediately after. The American productions all seem - despite their higher budgets, slicker sets and more glitzy packaging - to be the "children's " programmes, to me.
I don't know if it's because I was fed a good solid diet of daleks and the TARDIS when I was little, but Dr Who still has the ability to draw me in and provoke a deep resonance from somewhere in my Being.
Last night, watching the episode titled The Rings of Akhaten, I realised that the studio sets on Dr Who have a strong aura of my dreams about them.
So, did my early exposure to this television programme influence the way I have dreamed ever since I was 7, or is there a deliberate effort in the production to appeal to the deep psyche? I don't know. But I do know that Matt Smith is arguably the best Doctor I have ever seen.
In other, not unrelated news, medical scientist Sam Parnia has come out and said it:
".. we might justifiably begin to conclude that the brain is acting as an intermediary to manifest your idea of soul or self but it may not be the source or originator of it…"
I would recommend reading the whole article for a broad take on this ground-breaking pronouncement from a non-religious man of science.
And then again, one of our more notorious character actors has exited stage left after a good long run. It's never easy to play a villian, or villianess, so I guess I'll just wish her shade rest, and may she return as a better person.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.