Regular readers of this blog will know where I stand on the Doctors before Hartnell theory. I stand very firmly in the “who cares?” camp.
From the evidence of this drabble I wrote in July 1991 and recently rediscovered, it was always thus. At the time I wrote it, Sylvester McCoy was still notionally playing the Doctor in the exact mid-point of his available incarnations. And yet there were still some fans fretting about “what happens when he gets to number 13?”
Here we are in 2011, and we’ve reached Number 11. Yet I remain phlegmatic.
When you’re practically immortal, the only end of age seems an impossibly long journey distant. To you, a thousand years old can barely be conceived. To a mayfly, you are the god.
Today, I face my middle-age with equanimity. The flaw, perhaps, is that living fast means dying young.
Borusa escaped, after a fashion, by challenging Rassilon, his continued existence evidenced by the furious flashing of his eyes. The Master took one life for thirteen more. On the whole, though, it’s unlucky for most.
And so, what must a Time Lord do when time finally runs out? Cheat, of course.