Somebody called me an Indian giver recently. I don’t know if you’ve heard that expression. Since you were kids, but I remember we used to call each other— ‘Indian giver’ is one of the most offensive things you could ever— because what it’s meant to be is that someone gave you something and then they changed their minds. That makes you an Indian giver. And we equate this to the Indians because our feeling is that they gave us America, and then they— well, they didn’t take it back, certainly. We got here and the Indians were like, ‘hi.’ And we were like, ‘Hey, can we have everything?’ And they were like, ‘Well, we don’t know what ‘have’ means, but enjoy all the things that you need, like we do.’ So we start killing all of them. And they were like, ‘Oh, dude, ‘Could you not do that part where you kill all of us? ‘Cause that’s kind of a drag for us.’ And we’re like, ‘You guys are Indian givers! Oh, my God! We’re gonna name that after you. You guys are dicks!’

‘The division seems rather unfair,’ [Watson] remarked. ‘You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?’

‘For me,’ said Sherlock Holmes, ‘there still remains the cocaine-bottle.’

The lady next door runs a home for pigs. I went down each morning to say my hellos to the pigs and the people: cute little wee black piglings and mighty great boars and snufflers. Not for eating:Vietnamese potbellied pigs, pet pigs, some being boarded, some for sale, some for adoption.

The lady who owns it took me around and introduced me to many of the pigs.

“Now this one,” she said, pointing to one small and chirpy looking black fellow in a cage “was a pet pig. He was an ungelded boar, who was owned by people with Pomeranians. But they couldn’t cope, and we’re looking after him until he can be adopted.”

“Why couldn’t they cope?”

“Ah,” she said. “Well, there’s no way to put this delicately. I gelded him myself a couple of days ago. But an un-neutered boar needs to ejaculate at least twice a day to remain healthy. And this fellow, not being neutered, was trying to meet his ejaculatory needs with whatever came to hand. Mostly the Pomeranians. And the family, well, they really hadn’t bargained for that.”

I agreed that they probably hadn’t. And then I shook my head, listening to the grunt and snuffle of the pigs, and contemplating the silence of the Pomeranians.

Terrifying Fact Number Two, is that I’ve just watched Matt Smith carrying a flaming torch on screen. Oh, it’s for such a thrilling scene in Episode 12. Really and truly, magnificent and epic. A proper movie moment. But never mind that, it’s Matt carrying a FLAMING TORCH. Look, Matt’s lovely, he’s a magnificent, brand new, hilarious, heartbreaking, heroic Doctor — but the fact is, if that man walks into a room with a coffee then it’s only so long before you’re wearing it. No, really, clumsiest man on earth. He walks like he’s in a constant state of surprise at his own limbs. I remember when he turned up at a Worldwide meeting really early on, and the first thing he did was spill a cup of coffee over a rather lovely woman. Naturally she giggled, flushed and introduced her mother. (Ahh, life when you’re Matt ! I accidentally made eye contact with the same woman — she phoned the police and shot me in the face.) On the way out he apologised to a completely different woman for the coffee incident. “That was the wrong woman,” I said, as he went out the doors. “Nope,” he replied, “That was the second cup.”

Oh, and there was the top secret, very special, extra readthrough for Episode 10 (I’m talking that up, but what the hell) and Matt came striding in with a GUITAR ON HIS BACK. I have honestly never seen a whole roomful of people flatten themselves against a wall with such a high-pitched squeal of terror. Except Karen, of course, who trotted along behind him without a care in the world. Oh, the horror as the Doctor spun and chatted and coffeed a series of delighted women. How that guitar arced and scythed! Swish! Get down, Karen! Swish! Karen, save yourself! Swish! Not her face, Matt, NOT HER FACE!! Ah, the memories. You know, to this day I’m not sure if Matt knew he had a guitar on his back — he might just have collided with a musician.