The Howling of the Wind

I sit in my kitchen and I hear the wind whistling through the buildings. It’s a low, plaintive sound; almost the stereotypical sound of winter wind, but there is something else mixed into it. It’s that icy December wind that is bound up with the death of all things and the darkest days of the year. At two in the afternoon, the sun has already begun to sink lower in the sky and the shadows have lengthened. The sky is a purplish grey and the clouds are hanging heavily. Perfect time to brew a cuppa and curl up with book or holiday movie, I think. I seem glued to my chair though, not even wanting to stand up to turn on the light switch. The kitchen was getting quite dark, but for some reason I was finding the oddest comfort in sitting in the shadows listening to the howling of the wind.

The past two weeks, since I had returned from London had been difficult. My unhappiness with the programme, at least where the education project was concerned, had begun to take its toll and colour the rest of my experiences. My first summative assignment had been returned and for someone who is obsessed with being perfect, coming just shy of a first was still maddening. Thanksgiving had come and gone and it was the first one I had spent so far from my family and friends. Though I had managed a fairly good representation of a Thanksgiving dinner, it was still a Thanksgiving dinner for one. By the first week of December, I had begun to feel slightly less down. I had made an appointment to see my course director to discuss the education project and my inability to find an Easter work placement. I had jumped into the next assignments and was pouring my energy into the choir for our first performance. I was still on a high from the performance the next afternoon when I received some news that brought on the worst bout of depression I’ve had in over ten years.

Knowing that life continues without you is difficult. It makes you feel inferior and expendable. It also reminds you of all of the other times you’ve been hurt and all of a sudden you’re brain finds more and more to be upset about. It becomes a feeding frenzy with your sanity and happiness as the prey. I spent three days in that frenzy with those sharks ripping away at my self-esteem and future plans. I had none of my usual comforts like flooring it down Rt 295 at 75 mph, running around with my ferrets and cuddling them when I felt like I needed a hug, or watching endless replays of My Little Pony (don’t judge, I’m sure you watch bizarre things, too). I might not have had MLP, but I had QI and The Thick of It. I will be forever grateful to Malcolm Tucker for managing to make me laugh in the middle of that dark place. I also had my friends, both here and at home. I spent hours talking with them and they spent hours listening. I managed to wake up Saturday after a particularly difficult evening and finally feel something other than sadness or numbness. I woke up on Saturday and felt more like myself. It took a few more days to get back to feeling 100% but even now, occasionally one of those sharks will start to swim closer. For the moment though, they are serene.

The wind is whipping up again even more now. I smile and shake my head. What an amazing sound, I think. An hour later and the shadows have all but taken over. The purplish grey sky is now a darker blue grey and the orange lamps have been switched on. I finally stand and switch on the light. Time for a cuppa and that movie, I think. 

A Dickensian Christmas

Charlotte had been working and planning this event for at least a month. She had sent flurries of emails, designed a poster, coordinated with the Ustinov Intercultural Forum and the GCR. It was going to be a Dickensian Christmas. There would be mulled wine, mince pies, readings of Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol, A Visit From Saint Nicholas had been translated into 14 languages and would be read, and then there was the choir.

I first heard about the choir at Ustinov the summer before I came to Durham and when I was asked to take it over, I was a bit reticent. I had spent four years teaching primary school music which included children’s choirs, but there was a world of difference between conducting nine year olds and conducting adults. I wasn’t sure I would be up to the challenge. I knew I would need a talented accompanist as my piano skills have always been a bit suspect. After an exhaustive (and exhausting) search, I discovered I had been sitting next to one in lectures for four weeks. Alex had been one of the first people I had talked to in the program besides Sophie, but it wasn’t until he mentioned playing piano on Facebook that I realised there was a fellow musician in my midst. With him on board, all that was left was to choose some pieces, schedule rehearsals, and hopefully gather enough interested singers.

We would have only four rehearsals before our first performance on 2 December, so I knew I couldn’t choose overly complex pieces. It has always been difficult choosing music for the first semester. When I was teaching, I would have to choose blindly, not knowing how many children would sign up for choir and not knowing the level at which they could perform. I felt a similar uncertainty here. Would there be enough time to tackle something written by Handel? Will most of the singers have had choral experience? And the question that all choir directors ask: would there be enough tenors? In the end, I chose five Christmas carols which I thought would be somewhat familiar and were short enough to master in a month. Rehearsals were scheduled and a Facebook message went out into the ether. I wondered if anyone would come.

I arrived at the music room early to set up. Alex arrived shortly after me and we waited. I had had many responses from the Facebook message, but I still wondered if anyone would show. To my utter relief, singers began trickling in. Music was handed out and introductions were made. Soon the room was filled with altos, basses, sopranos, and (wohoo) tenors. I began to relax as soon as Alex hit the first chord for warm ups and the rest of the rehearsal reminded me of those days at undergrad when my friends and I would get together for jam sessions, albeit classical jam sessions, in the practice rooms.

Over the next few weeks, we worked out parts, quibbled over the proper pronunciation of “Bethlehem,” and laughed over my complete inability to say “Gloucestershire.” As the performance drew nearer and nearer I came to look forward to the weekly rehearsals. I always got nervous for them, but it was an hour and half that I wasn’t thinking about sustainability in museums, collection management, or trying to find a work placement. It was an hour and half that I could be a musician again.

The night of the performance arrived and I donned my typical Christmas conducting outfit, dark green silk top and black trousers. The last time I had worn it had been to conduct my last Christmas concert with my fourth grade chorus back home now two years ago. It fit well, though the trousers were looser from all the walking I had been doing in Durham.

The whole night was a success. From the first three carols, to the readings, to the translations (which was one of the most amazing parts), and when we closed the evening with Good King Wenceslas something in the choir clicked. It has happened before to me when I’ve been directing. All of a sudden everything lines up the way it is supposed to in a way that never happened in rehearsal. It’s like the choir levels up mid performance. I don’t know if it is the adrenaline of performing that does it, but it’s not something you can necessarily hear. You feel it. I felt it that night. I hope to feel it again at the next performance.

Christmas is all around really. And feeling Christmassy isn’t really about the shopping, decorating, or baking. I think my fondest Christmas memories always revolve around performing and watching classic films with my family. The rest is all trimmings, but the substance is what is true and what is important.  

Every Time a Bell Rings . . .

December arrived and with it came the Christmas Movie Marathon event hosted in Fisher Pub at Howlands. I had an essay to write, but when I saw that Miracle on 34^th Street and It’s a Wonderful Like were on the bill, I decided to procrastinate like any good graduate student. At 2:00 I headed over and found a place on one of the sofas. I was desperately hoping for the original Miracle but unfortunately it was the remake. I stayed anyway and had a nice chat with Jack, a Londoner working on a degree in politics. Free mulled wine was passed around and I finally tried my first mince pie ever.

So I had no idea that mince pies were vegetarian. For some reason (I guess the word mince being associated with mincemeat in my head) I didn’t think it was something I could have. When I learned that it was a fruit filled pastry though, I indulged my curiosity and my taste buds. I have to say the taste was…interesting. It was a raisiny kind of flavour and I wasn’t entirely sure if I liked it or not. I decided further testing would be needed at a later date.

Home Alone came on next. I got up to have a sandwich and as a result lost the comfy seat on the sofa. It was alright though because Trish had come in. I hadn’t seen much of her since September; her course was keeping her so busy. We both confessed some of our disappointments and realisations about graduate school.

“I think the honeymoon period is over for sure,” I said, “I am beginning to find myself frustrated with some aspects of the course. It’s not entirely what I thought I was getting.”

“I feel the same,” Trish said shaking her head.

We talked briefly before she headed back to her flat to work on a few assignments.

Finally it was time for It’s a Wonderful Life. I found a rather stiff chair closer to the screen. This was a film of my childhood. I remembered sitting by the fire when I was young and hearing Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed harmonising “Buffalo Gals.” I never understood the film when I was young, but then a child wouldn’t. It wasn’t until I was older, college aged even that the story began to make sense to me.

Sitting in a pub in northeast England, sipping a mulled wine, I found something new in the film I hadn’t noticed before. The movie should have been about Harry Bailey. He was dashing Joe College who shot down all of those planes in the war saving the lives of all the men on the transport ship. That is the type of story we most often see in films, well blockbuster Hollywood films, we’ll say. Here though, he is one of the most minor characters. It’s the story of a frustrated, average guy who never makes it past the boundaries of Bedford Falls; it’s the story of a boring, average life that is somehow at the same time, wonderful. Now some of you are probably wondering how it took me thirty years to realise this, it probably is obvious to everyone else, but I’ll admit, I never properly focused on this film before. I never actual sat and really watched and thought about it.

I began to think about versions of A Christmas Carol, too. It’s such a similar story type: the ruminations on the past, the parade of cause and effect, the realisation at the climax that transforms the main character. So many Christmas movies are about examining one’s life, one’s contributions, one’s expectations, and one’s realities. Is it because Christmas is at the end of the calendar year, and as a result it is the time to reflect or is there an inherent reflectiveness about the holiday? It’s probably a bit of both.

Look, daddy. Teacher says every time a bell rings and angel gets his wings…

I was still thinking about the movie on the way back to my room. I had intended to stay for the next two films, but I was exhausted, despite it only being 7:30 pm. I knew I needed to rest because Monday was going to be a long day and I had a choir to conduct.

It's beginning to look a lot like . . . well, you know

As you get older, the magic of Christmas is gradually replaced with insurmountable stress over the holiday season. The sheer exhilaration of putting up the tree with mom and dad turns into hours of untangling light strings and testing them only to find that they did not survive the year in storage; writing to Santa to ask for that one special gift has turned into shopping all December to find that one perfect gift for everyone on your list; the simple pleasure of baking cookies with grandmom has turned into mad cookie exchanges at work and, oh look, you just ran out of butter. On top of that, you still have the normal stresses of life buzzing about you, deadlines and meetings. Adults are amazing at not letting it show to kids, or maybe I was just a very unobservant child.

This year I have decided to try something different, partly because I am in graduate school, partly because I’m in a new country, and partly because I’m tired of not feeling Christmassy. For more on feeling Christmassy have a watch:

Anyway, I have decided to keep it simple this year for Christmas. I’m not going to go all out with decorating my little dorm room (I have a few reindeer ornaments scattered about and those make me happy enough), I won’t be planning any tactical sweeps of the town for the perfect presents for everyone (if I come across something I know someone will like, I’ll pluck it up), and oddly enough, there are these amazing places scattered about that actually sell pre-made cookies, biscuits if your English, and cakes (they are called bakeries, seriously check them out).

What I have decided to do though is to participate in a few Christmas events while I’m here. The first opportunity presented itself on the day I arrived back in Durham from my weekend with the Doctor. The Durham City Christmas Light Switch On was an all-day event leading up to the big moment when Market Square would shine in a blaze of LED twinkle lights. Charlotte and I had decided to go a week or so before hand, but I will admit, as I struggled up the final hill with my heavy suitcase and my bags laden with the spoils of convention heaven I was in no mood to walk thirty minutes back the way I came to watch someone plug in a string of lights.

I heard the bleat of a car horn just as I was cursing the hill. I got even angrier. Who was having me on? Some lad in a truck mocking my impression of Sisyphus no doubt. A silver hatchback pulled over to the side of the road ahead of me. I narrowed my eyes, wishing I could fire laser bolts when I realised it was Charlotte.

“Want a lift the rest of the way?” she asked rolling down the window. I nodded, now feeling awful that I had been in such a foul mood. I placed my suitcase in the back and climbed into the passenger seat.

The ride took less than a minute and I was grateful I wouldn’t have to continue my parody of ancient Greek tragedy for the ten minutes it would have taken me to make it to my room. I was lucky, Charlotte was just returning from a weekend spent at home when she spotted me. We exchanged stories from our adventures, me in London and she in Yorkshire. I began to relax a bit more.

“Did you still want to go see the lights?” she asked.

“I think I do, yeah,” I replied.

We decided to head back to our respective rooms for fifteen minutes, have an early dinner, and then head into town. I got back to my room and immediately unpacked everything. I always have to unpack immediately otherwise my suitcase will sit there for weeks. I hung my scarf on its peg, placed my K-9 tee shirt in the wardrobe and poured my worn clothes into the laundry bag. I sat down and finally took a deep breath. It felt like I hadn’t properly breathed all day.

After a creative hodge podge of a dinner, Charlotte and I headed over to Emily’s. She was planning on coming into town with us. The three of us began walking down the hill just as the sun was beginning to sink beneath the trees. Charlotte had a few errands to run and we had made it to town in good time. They wouldn’t be turning the lights on for at least another hour and half. We whizzed around the peninsula navigating through the crowds. When we got to Market Square, well, to be honest, I still have no idea what to make of what we saw.

There was a lit stage and a giant screen on which a man dressed as Santa was singing to a reindeer puppet.

The two Americans turned to Charlotte seeking an explanation. She looked at us.

“What is it?” she asked.

“What is all this?” I asked laughing, “I thought it would just be a quick little ceremony. Like the mayor would say something like ‘thanks all for coming’ and then someone would plug the lights in.”

“Oh no no. It’s very commercialised here, these sorts of things. They’ll have some B or C list celebrities and musical performances and all,” she explained.

It wasn’t at all what I expected. We wandered around town and up to the cathedral, killing time before the grand moment. When we did get back to the square it was filled with people and there was not room to move. There was some terrible singing and then the mayor did finally make a speech. Then the countdown . . .

Afterwards Emily decided to stay in town at one of the pubs with some friends we ran into at the lighting. Charlotte and I were completely done in and decided to head back and have a cup of tea before bed.

The Day I Learned the Tube

The alarm on my phone went off at 6:30 am, but I had already been awake for fifteen minutes. I debated hitting the snooze button enabling me to remain in the large, warm bed for another ten minutes, but I knew I had to be at Kings Cross before 9:30 and I would need to pick up breakfast on the way. Reluctantly, I turned the alarm off and rolled out of bed.

I was ready within an hour. I carefully checked each room of the flat and made sure I hadn’t left anything behind. I took one last look at the living room. That’s where I had watched the fiftieth anniversary of Doctor Who. I smiled wistfully and turned to leave grabbing my bags on the way out. I locked the flat, took the elevator to the second floor and dropped the key in the mailbox for Flat 6. As I closed the door to the apartment building behind me, I felt a pang of sadness. It’s always sad to leave a place. Even if it’s a place where you haven’t spent a great deal of time.

The DLR station was across the street. I made my way up the ramp toward the ExCel Centre and swiped my Oyster card on the way to the platform. This was going to be child’s play. All I had to do was reverse my route from two days ago. DLR to West Ham, West Ham to Kings Cross via the Hammersmith and City line. The DLR came within seven minutes and I was off.

West Ham was four stops away. As I sat with my luggage against my knees, I thought back to the year I spent in New York City. The subway had been quite daunting at first, but by the end of the year, I could navigate to almost anywhere with ease. I began to feel that the London Tube was an even easier system to learn. Everything was well signed and clear. The train arrived at West Ham and I made my way to the platform to pick up the Hammersmith and City line towards Hammersmith. Eleven stops and I would be enjoying a cup of tea and a crumpet at Kings Cross while I waited for my 9:30 train to Durham.

I looked at the electronic sign which displayed approaching trains and became suspicious when I didn’t see the train I needed. Then I heard the announcement, the harbinger of a morning of stress and improvisation.

“Passengers, please be advised that  due to engineering work, the Hammersmith and City line is closed between Moorgate and Barking.”

I closed my eyes and sighed a deep breath. This was not going to be easy. I desperately looked on the Tube map to try to figure out an alternate route. The Jubilee Line was also closed between Waterloo and Finchley for engineering work. In my panic, I had no idea what to do. I went back up the stairs and wandered back to the DLR. Perhaps I could backtrack. It was only 7:45 and if I went back to Canning Town, maybe I could take another DLR line to…closures on the DLR as well. I checked the app I had downloaded on my phone and the poor think had no idea what to do with itself. I had seen no attendants to ask for advice. I imagined being stuck at West Ham for the rest of my life, wandering aimlessly between platforms in some sort of British equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. Lost forevermore. As my panic began to rise, I heard a voice behind me.

“Excuse me, is this the right side for Stratford?”

It was an older man, short and heavy, with a  rough accent. I nodded. I could at least help someone else out.

“Thanks,” he replied. I took a chance.

“I’m trying to get to Kings Cross but with all of these line closures I’m not sure how to do it,” I explained.

“Let’s see then,” he smiled and turned to the Tube map. “Alright, what you want to do is take the Jubilee Line to London Bridge and then take the Northern Line up to Kings Cross. It’s the long way around but it’s probably the best way.”

“Okay, thank you so much,” I replied. I was truly grateful.

I walked as quickly as I could to the Jubilee Line platform. I had been there five minutes before but thought it wouldn’t get me where I needed to be seeing as there were also closures there. I checked my app. The closure was after London Bridge and service on the Northern Line was delayed slightly, but there were no closures. The train arrived in three minutes and I boarded the Jubilee Line towards Waterloo.

London Bridge was the sixth stop. I began to relax. I had a plan and it was only 8:00 am. I would still have time to grab breakfast and…

“Please be advised that the Northern Line is closed at London Bridge and Waterloo due to signal failure at Kennington.”

Really? I thought. Now someone is just having me on. Can they really be closing every conceivable route to Kings Cross? I whipped out my phone and not for the first time felt a great relief that I had gone with a smart phone. This time I ignored trip planner and let my New York subway sense (not unlike Spiderman’s spidey sense) guide me. At Waterloo I could pick up the Bakerloo Line to Baker Street and then the Hammersmith and City Line to Kings Cross. No wait. Bakerloo to Picadilly Circus. Then the Picadilly Line to Kings Cross. I had so far not heard of any closings on either of those lines and it would cut out two stops. We approached London Bridge and I watched anxiously as passengers disembarked. No turning back now. I was on to Plan C and I was sticking with it.

I arrived at Waterloo and followed the signs to Bakerloo northbound. The train would arrive in three minutes. It was now 8:30. I had an hour to make my train, I concluded, barring further interference from closures and delays, I would most likely still be able to grab breakfast and eat on the train. As I waited, I looked at the map of the line. It stopped at Baker Street. I so wanted to go there; to see 221B and walk around downtown London. Despite the anxiety, I was honestly having a good time. This was problem solving at its most practical. It required logic and improvisation, two skills the Great Detective possessed and praised. I wished I had a later train. I would go up to Baker Street and spend some time there. Then I would wander around downtown London. Despite not seeing most of the city, I felt more at home there than in Durham. I enjoyed the rivers of people, the infrastructure, and the energy. It was more familiar and more comforting. It was the same feeling I get when I’m in New York.

The train arrived, slightly delayed, but it arrived. Three stops would place me in Picadilly Circus. Then four stops and I would finally be at Kings Cross. When I got to the platform to pick up the Picadilly Line however, the electronic readout was not encouraging. The train was held. I glanced at the clock. It couldn’t be 8:40 already! I thought incredulously. I couldn’t have been travelling for over an hour before I even began travelling! It was no lie. The train finally arrived at 8:42 and I was finally on a train that would stop at Kings Cross.

I disembarked and made my way quickly to the centre of the station where there were large screens with the trains and platforms. I looked at them all and finally found the 9:30 to Newcastle. It was on time but the platform wasn’t posted yet. I turned and saw a coffee shop. I went in and grabbed a cheese and mushroom Panini, fruit salad, and water. When I went back out to look at the boards, I noticed the time. It had just turned 9:00. Not only had I made it in time, but I had made it in plenty of time.

I relaxed allowing my shoulders to finally rest below my ears. The London Underground, I thought, it’s a piece of piss, really. 

Pardon Me, Is There a Doctor in the House?

A Few Months Earlier

My alarm blasted me out of sleep. I opened my eyes and was met with complete darkness. I blinked a few times in order to adjust to the darkened surroundings of my bedroom. It was 2:45 am and I was home in New Jersey. I quickly rolled over and grabbed my computer which was on my nightstand. It was already opened to the correct web page: the Doctor Who 50^th Anniversary Celebration. Tickets would go on sale in fifteen minutes and I was determined to snatch one.

Fifteen minutes felt like fifteen years as I waited in the dark and repeatedly refreshed the page. The moments ticked by. Ten minutes. Five minutes. Three minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds. Go! Finally the page was opened and I hurriedly began clicking and typing in all the vital information. Saturday 23 November, Weeping Angel entry group, name, address, credit card number, click. It was done. I had secured my place at the historic celebration in London. I had no idea how was going to get down there from Durham. I had no idea where I would stay while I was there. It didn’t matter. Those were details I could figure out later. For now I was beyond elated.

I rolled back over and tried to sleep, but I was too excited. All I could think about was meeting my hero, Tom Baker. I desperately wanted to thank him for being my Doctor. I would make sure I got an autograph session with him. It wasn’t the signature I cared about. I would be happy just with a simple thank you. The website had mentioned that autographs would be purchased on the day of the event. I would make sure I got there early. I yawned and eventually I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep.

September

I had been in Durham for a little under a month and I knew I needed to figure out transport to and from London for the weekend I would be attending the convention. I had texted a friend who lived just outside of the city but that weekend was busy for them and I wouldn’t be able to stay. I’ve always been a huge fan of Priceline.com. I’ll rephrase. I’ve always been a huge fan of William Shatner and so my proxy, Priceline.com.

I wanted to stay near the ExCel Centre where the convention was being held so I wouldn’t have to worry about travel to and from the hotel. I typed in the address and up popped several hotels. I scrolled through until I stopped at one, the Grainstore Apartments. It was genuinely right next door to the convention and I couldn’t believe the price. For two nights it would come to roughly $300.00. That was much better than the other hotels which had been quoting me prices of £300.00 a night! I quickly snatched up a room for Friday and Saturday night.

I turned my attention to the train journey. I had yet to apply for my student rail card so I knew I would take a financial hit over the trip. The good news came when I received my course timetable and found I had no lectures on Friday. I would be able to head down Friday morning. I punched in the dates and received a pretty solid deal. Round trip to London and back to Durham was going to be £93.00. That was a lot less expensive than I thought.

It would be a three hour journey to Kings Cross. I pulled up a map of the London Underground. This looked simple enough. I’d take the Northern Line to the DLR and that to the ExCel Centre. Well, I could figure that out later. For now I had secured a place to stay and a train trip to get me there and back. I shuddered with excitement. This was going to be the event of a lifetime.

Early November

It had been a long week and I hadn’t had a proper chance to check my email. I had just finished turning in my first assignment for graduate school and the amount of energy it had taken had wiped me out. I opened my email and found one that had been sent three days ago from the company running the Doctor Who convention. As I read, my heart began to sink. They had opened up the chance to purchase autographs on the website. I was three days late, there would be no way there would be any left. I quickly went to the site, punched in the code, and to my utter dismay and disappointment, Tom Baker was completely sold out. Not only that, but Peter Davison, Colin Baker, and Sylvester McCoy were also sold out.

I desperately tried to find any way to buy an autograph session but to no avail. I couldn’t believe I had missed the opportunity. Meeting Tom Baker had been my motivation for attending. I had to find a new one now. I sadly posted the bad news on my Facebook. A few minutes later Jasmine, a friend from my course replied. She and her boyfriend David were also attending the event on Saturday though they were in the Ice Warrior entry group. She assured me that there would be autographs to be had on the day. Maybe I could sign up then.

I cheered up a bit, but the wind had gone from my sails.

22 November 2013

I had packed my suitcase the evening before. I made sure I had enough clothes for the weekend and my Tom Baker scarf. Ever since I had discovered I missed out on meeting him, I had found it difficult to feel any kind of excitement about my trip. I was angry at myself. This was still the event of a lifetime and yet I was acting like a petulant child who hadn’t gotten its way.

I checked my room one last time for anything I may have forgotten. I wheeled my case out and locked the door behind me. It was a fifty minute walk to the train station but I was glad to have some time alone to think and process what I was doing. I had grown exceptionally nervous about the trip. What if I missed the train? What if I got lost on the tube? What if I couldn’t find my hotel? What if they had lost my reservation? What if I really couldn’t get an autograph session with Tom Baker?

I forced myself to take deep breaths and focus on one thing at a time. First thing, get to the station and print out your tickets. After that you can worry about other things. The air was cool and crisp and I welcomed the feeling of winter. I was ready for Christmas and for Christmas break especially. It had been a busy term and I still had assignments due not to mention I needed to find a work placement for my Easter vacation. I needed to get away from Durham for a while. The bubble I was living in was beginning to feel a bit stifling. I needed to breathe city air and have a totally different experience.

I made it to the station forty minutes before my train was due to arrive in. I sat and waited and watched the other trains come and go. It felt like it had been a lifetime since a huge group of my friends and I had boarded a train into Newcastle to celebrate my birthday. It had actually only been two weeks. Time was flying by and I was gripped by the realisation I had been in England for almost two months now. Two months down, ten to go, I thought. Ten months and so much I had to do and wanted to do. I wondered if I’d be able to cram it all in.

My train would be there in two minutes. I went through the gates and looked down at my reservation. I was in coach E seat 31. I began to walk toward the end of the platform. When the train finally pulled up, I boarded and found my seat. With some help from the man in the seat next to me, I lifted my bag up onto the rack and then took my place for the next three hours.

A chilly morning at Durham station

I was busy reading for my next essay the entire trip down. I glanced out of the window a few times as we passed Darlington and York. Between York and Doncaster we were delayed on the tracks for thirty minutes while the crew performed safety check son the brakes of one of the coaches. I didn’t mind. It gave me more time to get through the dense policy documents I had to read. In the end though, I only got through two of four.

Kings Cross was the final stop and everyone poured off the train and into the cavernous building. I tried my best not to walk around with my mouth gaping and my eyes wide. I had lived in New York City for a year and the city was where I felt at home. I was surprised how much I was reminded of New York; the pulsating energy and the wonderful anonymity of being crammed up with millions of strangers in one city. I loved it.

I followed the signs for the underground and queued up to purchase an Oyster card. I had decided to take the Hammersmith and City Line to West Ham and then the DLR to Custom House and the ExCel Centre. It was the route with the fewest transfers. I continued following signs for my line, checking the app I had downloaded to make sure there were no delays or closures.

Kings Cross, London

Within an hour I was arriving at the ExCel Centre. I strolled across the outdoor gangway and began to feel a creeping excitement grow within me. This was going to be quite amazing. I would make sure I had an amazing time. At the moment though, I was lost. I could not find the Grainstore Apartments despite Google Map’s best efforts. I finally made the phone call and discovered I was in the right place. The man on the other end of the line told me to turn around. In the distance, down the street three or four doors, I saw him waving.

After I checked in, I rode the elevator down two floors and found my flat, flat 6. I unlocked the door and instantly felt one hundred times better. I was exhausted from my trip but the sight that welcomed me made me forget that. The flat reminded me so much of the apartment I had to give up after I lost my job. It was modern and comfortable. A king sized bed rather than the single I had grown used to in my study bedroom back in Durham, a soaking tub instead of a space pod shower, and a real living room with a TV and a kitchen all to myself (not that I would be doing any cooking). I felt like I was at home. I ran myself a bath, watched some TV, and then made preparations for tomorrow’s adventure. Finally I snuggled into bed and drifted off to sleep.

Yeah, I think I could live here quite happily.

23 November 2013

It was 3:00 am when I woke up. I groaned. I had been suffering with acute insomnia for the past two weeks and it seemed as though I would never be rid of it. I tossed and turned for an hour, thinking and worrying. My thoughts turned to previous conventions I had been to and I worried this one would end up feeling like those. I had left the others feeling rather empty and depressed. I am not generally a convention goer, you see and to be honest, they are not my favourite events to attend. It’s always a high anxiety atmosphere with everyone feeling that they must do, see, hear, and buy all the things. You can meet some very aggressive people who will elbow you out of the way for two seconds with a celebrity. Then there is the endless queuing. Queues for food, autographs, panels, shopping, shows, the toilets. Queues everywhere. When you aren’t standing in a queue you are invariably looking for the end of one. I sighed and rolled over trying to get back to sleep. This was going to be different, I told myself. You will have a good time tomorrow, queues and all.

A few hours later my alarm went off and like a zombie and shuffled into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. After my shower I felt more awake. I got dressed in the comfiest clothes I could, pulled on my coat and my Tom Baker scarf. I had never worn it in public and I debated whether or not I should. Just go ahead and do it, I said to myself. I wrapped it around me a few times and the first vivid memory of the day struck me.

I was in fifth grade and when I say I was a geek, I was a total and complete geek. I didn’t have many friends and I had gotten used to daily bullying on the playground. One morning before school my big brother, Jimmy pulled me over to the coat closet and took out the giant Tom Baker scarf I had gotten for Christmas the year before. Why don’t you wear this today? He asked. I hesitated. Come on, it’s crazy scarf day, he smiled. I smiled. He wrapped it around me several times and I image that I must have looked like Randy from A Christmas Story. He walked me to the bus stop and I rode off to school. I stood by the classroom door, outside in the cold air. One of my classmates looked at me with a mix of disdain and amusement. Why are you wearing THAT? She asked. I’m wearing it because it’s crazy scarf day. I replied with more confidence and gusto than I normally did. She raised her eyebrows, turned, and to my surprise she left me alone.

All of a sudden I wished more than anything that my big brother were there. He had introduced me to Doctor Who and it didn’t feel right that he wasn’t there. Jimmy had returned from a semester in college and introduced the whole family to Doctor Who. We would gather around the TV every Saturday evening and watch replays on NJN. I was only five or six when I first saw the show, but it left an indelible impression on me. In recent years, I have found drawings I did as a child featuring a wonky blue box, a metal dog, and a tall figure in a long scarf. I remember wanting desperately to be Leela, Nyssa, and Ace. I used to pretend that my father’s tyre pressure gauge was a sonic screw driver and I’d often steal it to go and save the universe. I still have the key to the TARDIS on my key ring and I still hope that my Doctor will show up one day and whisk me away for adventures. I felt a pang of something, nostalgia was it? I brushed it off as best I could, grabbed my bag, and headed off to the convention.

I made sure to dress appropriately.

It was surprisingly quiet with no crowds when I arrived. I thought that it would be mobbed at 8:00 with queues stretching from the convention centre to the London Eye. 

Where were the masses of people?

As I had time, I bought a hot chocolate and a gingerbread muffin from Costa and began walking deeper into the centre. I finally found the Weeping Angel queue and it still wasn’t as long as I thought it would be. I texted Jasmine wondering if she and her boyfriend had arrived yet. We had decided to try to spend some time together at the convention in between our scheduled shows. It turned out she was in the queue running parallel to mine and she came running up to me smiling.

“Hello, how are you?” she asked a little out of breath.

“I’m good, how are you and David?”

“Good, we had a lot of trouble with the trains. They’ve shut some of them down cause they’re working on the lines. We wanted to get here earlier,” she replied.

“Why would they shut down lines this weekend when they know so many people will be trying to get here?” I asked.

“No idea,” she said, “So are you excited?”

“I am,” I didn’t sound convincing, “I’m hoping we can hang out a bit this afternoon.”

“Yeah me, too. We’re going in a different entrance, but I’ll text you and we can meet up before our first show at 10:00,” she smiled.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said and smiled in return. She headed back to her line and I turned my attention back to the queue.

The first of many queues

Cybermen don't have to wait in queues.

It began moving winding its way into a large empty warehouse. I was handed a lanyard with a picture of a Weeping Angel and a timetable on the back. Then we queued up again to get into the main exhibition hall. At 9:30 everyone spilled through a London set and into the hall. I began wandering aimlessly and a bit lost through the booths, the stages, and vendors. I was overwhelmed and I felt very alone all of a sudden. I texted Jasmine but she was being shepherded right into her first show. We wouldn’t be able to meet up until after, but then I realised I would be queuing up for my shows then. It was a clever crowd control device. The Weeping Angels and the Ice Warrior groups would never intersect. I realised I would be on my own for the day.

Entering into the TV World of Doctor Who

I took a deep breath and tried to focus. I decided to head over to the costume gallery in order to gather my thoughts and calm down a bit. I weaved my way among the props and mannequins stopping every once and a while to remember an episode where I had seen that monster or that costume. I snapped pictures of each Doctors’ costumes and of Old Bessie. 

I was feeling much calmer and more able to make clear headed decisions. It’s always overwhelming when you first arrive at a convention. You have to get your bearings and you have to figure out what your goals for the day are. Goals. I decided to wander over to the autograph area to see if by some remarkable chance that I would be able to meet Tom Baker. I found a woman with a clipboard. Clipboards always denote some sort of authority. I asked about the possibility. She smiled and flipped over a few pages.

“Oh no I’m sorry. There aren’t any left with Tom Baker,” she said. My face fell. I glanced down at the page and saw that indeed, all of the Doctors were sold out, just as they had been online. I thanked her and wandered away trying to figure out what to do now.

I found myself amongst the vendors’ stalls and began looking at all of the different items for purchase. I decided I would mark out in my head the things I wanted to buy for myself and for presents. I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. I had set alarms to remind me when to queue for my shows. It was time. There were two panel shows back to back that I would be seeing first, Regenerations and The Eleventh Hour. After waiting for thirty minutes, they began letting people into the theatre fifty or so at a time.

I got a fairly good seat towards front and in the centre. As we waited for the auditorium to fill up, scenes from the past fifty years of Doctor Who flashed up on the huge screen in front of us. William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton, Jon Pertwee, Tom Baker, Peter Davison, Colin Baker, Sylvester McCoy, Paul McGann, Christopher Eccleston, David Tennant, and Matt Smith. There were cheers for favourite Doctors but only David Tennant and Matt Smith got any recognition. I felt for the first time that day a regeneration gap. I was upset that no one was cheering for any of the other Doctors, my Doctors. I had grown up with replays of Tom Baker, Peter Davison, Colin Baker, and Sylvester McCoy. My Who was marked by wobbly sets, cardboard monsters held together by cello tape, and CGI done on the equivalent of a Commodore 64. My Who will had the feel of a group of friends getting together to film something purely for fun. That’s my Who. That will always be my Who.

Regenerations began and I was relieved when they began introducing a panel of my Doctors. I instantly felt more at home. Tom Baker, cane in hand, slowly hobbled over to one of the red sofas and sat on the arm. There he was. My Doctor. My Doctor. I smiled and the second vivid memory of the day welled up inside me.

My grandmother had come to visit for week. I was maybe eight or nine and I was home sick from school. She had made me some chicken noodle soup which I was weakly spooning into my mouth.

“Is there anything you’d like to watch?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Can I watch Doctor Who?” We had been taping them as they aired so we could enjoy them anytime we wanted.

My grandmother smiled.

“Doctor Who, eh?” she said, “Which one do you want?”

“Any of the Tom Baker ones,” I instantly replied.

She pulled of the first tape and put it in the VCR. Together we watched Jon Pertwee regenerate into Tom Baker. We watched him outsmart the giant Robot and the think tank that threatened the world with a nuclear holocaust. Then the next episode. Sarah, Harry, and the Doctor fought of the Wirrin invasion of earth. Then the Sontaran Experiment. We watched Doctor Who all day. It was the best medicine for a flu.

Peter Davison entered next, followed by Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy. They spoke about their eras as the Doctor. Scenes from their respective regenerations played over the large screen and they talked about handing the role onward. I have watched many interviews with actors that have played the role of Doctor Who. They speak about the last day of filming when it was time to hand over to the next Doctor. They always speak with such sadness. It is masked sometimes by gentle jibes aimed at their successor or by reassurances that they were going on to other things, but there is always a great sadness that comes through. Something struck me hard and out of the blue. I am one of those past Doctors, watching the next generation of fans claim the show and make it their own. And it is with great sadness that I watch from the side lines of the now massive fan culture the absolute joy a glimpse of Matt Smith or David Tennant can bring. I understand that excitement and I am so glad that a whole new generation of fans has discovered the show that I grew up watching. Yet, I cannot feel a full participant. It is not spite, it is not envy, it’s nostalgia. That’s what I kept feeling, nostalgia. It’s quite a complex emotion really. People often speak fondly of nostalgia, recounting with such pleasantness the quaintness of the past. Nostalgia has a second face though, one that reminds us that we are linear beings. As much as we may wish to turn back the clock, to relive the past, we are forced into an onward march through time. The Doctor really is lucky to be able to travel to the past and relive it. I wish I were so lucky. I wish I could go back to my childhood and relive the days of Classic Who when the fans screamed for Tom Baker or Jon Pertwee.

My Doctors. ALL my Doctors.

I was sad when the panel was over and I watched the Doctors leave. I had remembered something while I watched and listened to them. I have always thought of Tom Baker as my one and only Doctor, but the truth is, all four of them were my Doctors. Memories of watching each of them flooded my mind and despite the disdain so many fans have for Colin Baker and Sylvester McCoy, as a kid I really loved watching them, too. Then there is Peter Davison. If I hadn’t first seen Tom Baker, I think for sure Peter Davison would be my absolute favourite. I probably watched more of his episodes as a kid than anyone else’s. The way he speaks of the show past and present is so positive as well. I now felt even more regret that I wouldn’t be able to meet any of them. My Doctors. I would thank them a million times over for the joy they brought me as a child.

The Eleventh Hour was the next panel this time with Matt Smith, Jenna Coleman, and Stephen Moffatt. It was clear that the crowd was really excited for this show and they screamed as each entered in succession. I enjoyed the discussion and, as a fan of Stephen Moffatt in general, I was especially interested in glimpses into his creative process. Most of the questions were aimed at Matt Smith, and really it’s understandable. He’s the Doctor now, after all. As he spoke he constantly adjusted his socks. Then he said something that struck me.

“I think those of us in our thirties really got robbed of Doctor Who. It was cancelled just as we were coming of age.”

This was so true. I was lucky in that NJN showed replays and we had taped many of the episodes, but for the majority of my childhood, there were no new episodes being made. I had eventually grown out of watching the series, especially after Jimmy moved out and took all of the tapes with him to his new apartment. I wondered what it would have been like if I had had Doctor Who all through growing up. How marvelous would that have been?

After the panels I headed immediately over to have my photo taken at the TARDIS console. I had an hour before I was due to be at my next panel so I knew I was cutting it very close but the queue wasn’t very long. As I waited I was hit for a second time with a huge sadness that my big brother wasn’t there with me. I wanted desperately to make him appear so I could share everything with him. I began to tear up, completely unexpectedly. I took out my phone and messaged him trying to maintain tight emotional control. We texted back and forth as I waited in line and it made it seem like he was there at least in spirit. I waited for about forty-five minutes. Near to the entrance to the set an attendant was chatting happily to the people queuing.

“Have you been having a good day?” she asked smiling.

“I have,” I replied. It was true. I loved the panel shows and I was beginning to feel much more at ease with everything.

“Are you from America?” she asked, recognising my accent.

I nodded and smiled.

“You came all the way for this event?”

“I’m studying up in Durham, it was just really well timed,” I explained.

“Still Durham is what six hours on the train?”

“Only three really, plus an hour on the tube.” The queue began to move forward again.

“Well I hope you have a really great day,” she smiled again. I thanked her.

It was finally my turn. After a single snap of the camera, I was ushered off the set and handed a print. I had ten minutes to make it to the next panel.

As I rode the escalator up to Level 3 towards the Classic Lounge, I glanced over at those coming down. I caught sight of Sylvester McCoy and realised slightly too late that I had just passed him and Colin Baker as they went down to the lower level. I smiled and laughed at my blindness. That would have been the perfect chance to smile, say hi, and thank you.  

Remarkably I made it with time to spare. It was a panel with some of my favourite companions, Louise Jameson, Katy Manning, and Sophie Aldred. I took an aisle seat and waited for it to begin. I was glad to be able to hear them speak about their time on the show and watch clips of some of their pivotal scenes They discussed the nuances of their characters and where their careers had gone after Who. As Sophie Aldred spoke about smashing up a Dalek with a baseball bat, I remembered watching Silver Nemesis as a kid and wishing I were Ace. She was one of the youngest companions and one I identified a lot with.

Katy Manning, Sophie Aldred, and Louise Jameson

As I wandered back downstairs and into the main hall, I began to feel that there was something missing. There were people who weren't there that should have been, Lis Sladen, Mary Tamm, Nicholas Courtney, Jon Pertwee, Patrick Troughton, William Hartnell. Though clips with them were shown, it seemed that there wasn’t much talk of their vital contributions to Who over the years. Gosh, what would Doctor Who be without Sarah Jane and Brigadier Alastair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart? There was a tiny curtained in memoriam area where a looped tape with names of images played of all those who we had lost over the past 50 years. I really wished they could have been there to see the fiftieth. I wondered what they would say about it. It was a gap that could not be filled; a palpable absence in the fabric of that day.

I went over to the vendors and picked up a few things for myself and some Christmas presents as well. I spent over £50 at the Big Finish booth which qualified me to receive a postcard with Tom Baker’s signature. I may not have met him, but I did at least get his autograph. Mine was the second to last one as well, so it was all well timed. I finally managed to grab some lunch and then began queuing for the final show. The SFX show dealt with all of the physical special effects from the new series. They blew up a Dalek, shot a Cyberman, made it snow, and lit the stage on fire. I’ve always loved special effects, especially these kinds of special effects. CGI is awesome, but there is something about actual live effects that really makes a show special.

It'll do. It most certainly will do.

I texted Jasmine as I exited the theatre. I finally met up with her and David but only for a brief moment. They had tickets to watch the fiftieth anniversary show in a theatre and had to make the next train. I walked them to the DLR and then decided to head back to my room. It had been a day filled with emotions, some expected but more of them completely unexpected. Memories I had not accessed for years had flooded my mind and I was emotionally and physically drained. I took one last look back before I left the ExCel Centre. The event I had been preparing for the past five or so months was now over and I began to feel that emptiness that has always accompanied conventions I have attended. I didn’t want the day to end, but it was time. It was time to go back to the flat, have a hot bath and watch the 50^th Anniversary episode.

Thinking back, now that it has been a few days and I have had time to process, I am genuinely glad to have been able to attend the convention. It is true I did not get a chance to meet my hero, Tom Baker, but being there reminded me that I had other heroes as well. I’m not sure why I ignored my other Doctors for so long but without Peter Davison, Colin Baker, and Sylvester McCoy my childhood would not have been the same. Since I was unable to tell them in person, I would like to put it out there into the either of the interwebs now:

To my Doctors (#4, 5, 6, and 7),

I cannot express adequately in words what your performances in Doctor Who have meant to me. Watching the show as a child left a huge impression on me and I firmly believe I owe a great deal of my imagination and adventurous spirit to those happy hours I spent watching and rewatching your episodes. Each of you left a positive mark on my childhood and I am so glad to have rediscovered it while I was in London this past weekend.

I also must mention and thank you a thousand times over for the mini episode The Five(ish) Doctors. That was my fiftieth anniversary episode. It brought back the same feelings I get watching your episodes today. That spontaneity and the palpable enjoyment which comes through in your performances is what Doctor Who is all about. When I watch your episodes, I can tell how much fun you were all having and that is why I love those years so much.

Thank you all for the amazing adventures.

Jen