I don’t have too many childhood anecdotes about watching Doctor Who. I started watching during Dragonfire and saw it through till the end of Survival. My Doctor tricked the Daleks into blowing up Skaro, eliminate the entire CyberFleet with a sentient weapon used against its will, and manipulated the life of his companion just to take a shot at Fenric. I like to refer to the Seventh Doctor as Bat-Doctor. Always a few steps ahead, sometimes even ahead of himself.

It’s odd, really. During that period, Who was slung against Coronation Street by Michael Grade as part of his (rather successful) campaign to take the programme off-air. I always thought that revenge came a few years back when the Christmas episode of Who came top of the day’s ratings, destroying all the usual soap stalwarts, including Coronation Street. But this weekend was something else - a simulcast across the planet of an odd old man in a blue box, a blue box that ceased to make sense about forty years ago. And yet, is now more famous as a shape of a spaceship than its temporary use for policemen. Everybody got to see The Day of The Doctor at the same time. Or, if you were watching it via iPlayer, you got to see it at 30 second intervals, making it last two hours rather than an hour and fifteen minutes.

It was vintage Moffat - all plot, a smattering of character, fun and japery involving the Doctors, a few surprises here and there (THE EYEBROWS), and a surprising redefinition of the Doctor after the special; a ret-con that left everything previous in place. And a fez. I couldn’t really ask for more, except for being home in the UK to see Eleven turn into Twelve. Or is it Twelve into Thirteen? I don’t really know any more…