“He has that thing, like Harry Potter does, right mom?” asked the little girl.
“Who has what thing, baby?”
“The Doctor. The one I didn’t know before. That thing where you saw so many bad things that you’re angry and sad at everyone...”
“Oh. Yes, I think the Ninth Doctor does have PTSD - or that’s what we’d call it in a human. Why?”
“Because he doesn’t seem as nice as Ten and Eleven; they’re the ones we met on Sarah Jane . He’s even mad at Rose. A lot. But it’s not a alien thing, ‘cause Harry has it too.”
She’s nine, my daughter, and she sits here next to me on the couch every weeknight, watching Doctor Who and letting me see it through her eyes.
She’s old enough to understand that Jack Harkness is trying to get a date with just about everyone he sees, but young enough to think that’s “icky”.
Every time she gets frightened when we watch she chants under her breath - not a zombie, alien technology - and clutches at my elbow, a habit she broke under most circumstances years ago.
This series is one of stories that come to me as I see these episodes anew, through the eyes of a child.