Doctor Who: A state of mental overcrowding
Note: contains spoilers for series 5 of Doctor Who.
Rory’s head is getting decidedly crowded these days. He’s pretty sure that he’s twenty one years old, but shoe-horned into his skull is such a teeming mass of memories that he struggles to keep them all in line.
Take his stag night for example, one of the simple ones. In one version, there was a cake with a stripper in it, a very attractive young lady, who went home with his best man. His soon to be father-in-law spent half the night deep in conversation with a lamppost. It was embarrassing, but no more so than is typical for such an event. In the other, there was a cake with the Doctor in it. Who, mercifully, didn’t go home with Jeff, but did abduct Rory from his own stag night. Which was, on reflection, possibly less embarrassing, but probably more bizarre than your average stag night.
The wedding he’s currently attending? His own wedding? He’s already done it once in the Dream. Although, now he comes to think about it, in that memory, he’s pretty sure that the Doctor’s dancing wasn’t quite as unique as this time around. And, of course, the Roman part of him at the back of his mind keeps complaining that a real wedding involves a great deal more sacrificing, and certainly more in the way of consummating than this one does. Non-Roman Rory isn’t quite so keen on the idea of sacrificing, but he wouldn’t mind getting away from this reception and making a start on the other bit.
Here’s the rub - some of the memories are totally fake, he knows, but they’re still there, cluttering up his mind. The entirely artificial twenty one years of Roman childhood are as clear and compelling as any others, even if he suspects that they are the product of Amy’s two years of Latin lessons at the local grammar school.
Even worse are the memories from the Dream. He's certain that dreams are supposed to fade, but the memories that helped to make the fake Leadworth seem real enough to fool him are as clear as the others.
He remembers the first two years at uni, while Amy was still travelling in the TARDIS; remembers the tiny cramped house they rented in his third year, sharing with the crazy woman who kept the remote control in the fridge, remembers Amy persuading the Doctor that using a very ancient and powerful time machine as a removal van was a perfectly rational idea: "We're skint, and Rory hates motorway driving...". He remembers the housewarming for the Bristol flat, having to rescue the Doctor from the clutches of their predatory neighbour. Three years of GP rotations racing by; hearing from Amy's aunt that "Nice Doctor Bowen" was retiring; the interview he didn't tell Amy about, and the call he was stunned to receive after he'd convinced himself he'd made an arse of himself in the interview. But more to the point, he remembers lectures, assessments, exams, diagnoses, all the myriad of information that he needed to absorb in order to qualify. Where it came from, he’s not entirely certain, though the Doctor’s seemingly endless knowledge might encompass the entire of Earth’s medical understanding.
Most of the one thousand and eight hundred odd years of guarding were a lot less eventful. Truth be told, the memories of that time are extremely dull, but what the lack in excitement they more than make up for in quantity. Spectacularly boring quantity to be sure, but quantity nonetheless.
So here he is, twenty one years old, going on one thousand nine hundred and sixty five. Technically, he may well have lived longer than the Doctor, even if some of those years are fake, others are duplicated and most of the rest are dull as dishwater. He’s a nurse, a doctor and a soldier. He can’t just settle back into the village that time forgot and let all that go, not any more. When that blue box leaves, he’s going to be right there on board, ready for the next adventure.
Author's Notes:
Nurses who hold a degree can retrain as doctors on a four year graduate entry to medicine course. To become a GP (family doctor), you need a further 3 years training. With the average GP earning 150,000GBP a year, it’s probably worth it.
Yes, here in the UK many grammar schools really do still have Latin lessons on the timetable. Most, if not all used the Cambridge Latin Course of which James Moran, who wrote the Fires of Pompeii, is clearly aware.
Rory’s head is getting decidedly crowded these days. He’s pretty sure that he’s twenty one years old, but shoe-horned into his skull is such a teeming mass of memories that he struggles to keep them all in line.
Take his stag night for example, one of the simple ones. In one version, there was a cake with a stripper in it, a very attractive young lady, who went home with his best man. His soon to be father-in-law spent half the night deep in conversation with a lamppost. It was embarrassing, but no more so than is typical for such an event. In the other, there was a cake with the Doctor in it. Who, mercifully, didn’t go home with Jeff, but did abduct Rory from his own stag night. Which was, on reflection, possibly less embarrassing, but probably more bizarre than your average stag night.
The wedding he’s currently attending? His own wedding? He’s already done it once in the Dream. Although, now he comes to think about it, in that memory, he’s pretty sure that the Doctor’s dancing wasn’t quite as unique as this time around. And, of course, the Roman part of him at the back of his mind keeps complaining that a real wedding involves a great deal more sacrificing, and certainly more in the way of consummating than this one does. Non-Roman Rory isn’t quite so keen on the idea of sacrificing, but he wouldn’t mind getting away from this reception and making a start on the other bit.
Here’s the rub - some of the memories are totally fake, he knows, but they’re still there, cluttering up his mind. The entirely artificial twenty one years of Roman childhood are as clear and compelling as any others, even if he suspects that they are the product of Amy’s two years of Latin lessons at the local grammar school.
Even worse are the memories from the Dream. He's certain that dreams are supposed to fade, but the memories that helped to make the fake Leadworth seem real enough to fool him are as clear as the others.
He remembers the first two years at uni, while Amy was still travelling in the TARDIS; remembers the tiny cramped house they rented in his third year, sharing with the crazy woman who kept the remote control in the fridge, remembers Amy persuading the Doctor that using a very ancient and powerful time machine as a removal van was a perfectly rational idea: "We're skint, and Rory hates motorway driving...". He remembers the housewarming for the Bristol flat, having to rescue the Doctor from the clutches of their predatory neighbour. Three years of GP rotations racing by; hearing from Amy's aunt that "Nice Doctor Bowen" was retiring; the interview he didn't tell Amy about, and the call he was stunned to receive after he'd convinced himself he'd made an arse of himself in the interview. But more to the point, he remembers lectures, assessments, exams, diagnoses, all the myriad of information that he needed to absorb in order to qualify. Where it came from, he’s not entirely certain, though the Doctor’s seemingly endless knowledge might encompass the entire of Earth’s medical understanding.
Most of the one thousand and eight hundred odd years of guarding were a lot less eventful. Truth be told, the memories of that time are extremely dull, but what the lack in excitement they more than make up for in quantity. Spectacularly boring quantity to be sure, but quantity nonetheless.
So here he is, twenty one years old, going on one thousand nine hundred and sixty five. Technically, he may well have lived longer than the Doctor, even if some of those years are fake, others are duplicated and most of the rest are dull as dishwater. He’s a nurse, a doctor and a soldier. He can’t just settle back into the village that time forgot and let all that go, not any more. When that blue box leaves, he’s going to be right there on board, ready for the next adventure.
Author's Notes:
Nurses who hold a degree can retrain as doctors on a four year graduate entry to medicine course. To become a GP (family doctor), you need a further 3 years training. With the average GP earning 150,000GBP a year, it’s probably worth it.
Yes, here in the UK many grammar schools really do still have Latin lessons on the timetable. Most, if not all used the Cambridge Latin Course of which James Moran, who wrote the Fires of Pompeii, is clearly aware.