The weekend just gone was spent largely in watching Doctor Who of various vintages while B. was away at a hen party. I've been disappointed by the latest season, and by David Tennant: there's been a lot of good stuff (and Saturday night's season finale was a splendid example, a handful of stupid moments aside) but it's failed, with one glorious exception, to scale the heights of the 2005 season.
I don't know whether I'll be updating Parrinium Mines any more. In theory I should at least set down my overall impressions of the season, but I feel strangely unmoved to do so. There's been much to admire, but it's so overshadowed by its immediate predecessor that much of what I said would turn out negative. In theory, I could keep it up for the sake of commenting on older Doctor Who, in book and TV form, but I'm not sure it's worth it. I'll let you know.
(On the plus side, though, my research for the still-to-be-announced short story I've been periodically banging on about here has got me completely addicted to William Hartnell's era. The Romans is top-notch comedy entertainment, and not in a "so bad it's good" way. It's genuinely brilliant.)
[Crossposted to Parrinium Mines, just in case anybody's reading there but not here.]