When asked to identify himself to the Daleks’ Parliament in series 7 Doctor Who answers “It’s me, the Doctor, you know me, the Oncoming Strom, the Predator.”
Mr. T turned two years old a little over a month ago and I have been thinking more and more about this Oncoming Storm. Obviously I had heard all about ‘the terrible twos’ when toddlers start to assert their independence without any knowledge, much less care for, the rules of social etiquette that binds society together.
You know the rules I mean, like not throwing yourself on the floor and screaming at the top of your voice because your dad has given you grape juice instead of orange juice for breakfast.
Or the rule about not kicking, punching and screaming your mamãe because she thinks two straight hours of Peppa Pig is probably enough.
Then there’s the rule about not headbutting your vovó because she doesn’t want to let you sit in the driver’s seat and drive her car through rush hour traffic.
Totally unfair rules for a two-year-old, I realise, but ones which help the smooth running, indeed the very survival, of a family.
In my few moments of quiet solitude I sometimes ask myself ‘What would the Time Lord do with an opponent as implacable as a toddler?’
With other enemies he can whip out his sonic screwdriver. Sometimes he uses many millenia of experience and intellect to work out a solution to the problem. If this doesn’t work he can always dive for the cover of the Tardis and escape. Failing all these he just trusts to blind luck and it usually works out well in the end.
Unfortunately, I haven’t got a sonic screwdriver, nor a Tardis and my luck isn’t the greatest (I still haven’t won the lottery). I like to think I am above your average intelligence, but there are lots of people who would disagree and have quite vehemently told me so to my face in the past.
So all I have is my patience and my intransigence. My plan is just to plod on regardless of the screams and the punches and the kicks. Stick to my guns and don’t give in. If I retreat Mr. T will take a mile so I must insist that he drinks his grape juice, or turns off Peppa Pig, or can’t drive his vovó’s car.
And to some extent this is what Doctor Who would do. He wouldn’t give in to a Dalek or a Cyberman or a Weeping Angel. But then he never had to face a monster as fearsome as a two-year-old boy.