But I'm not willing to admit the truth of that song, or the tear in my eye, or my love of this show, or my heartbreak when it doesn't perform to my specifications. Because, you see, that would mean I care. And I promised not to care. Not about you, not about this stupid show. That's not my job: I don't love anymore. I jeer.
So I will say instead that the Crack spread, across time and space and every adventure, and even shows up at the end of this episode, across the hull of the Starship UK. But instead of pointing out that obvious corollary, we get a call from Winston Churchill, for no real reason, so we can fly to him in the Blitz and not run into Nine/Rose/Jack while we have a boring toy-introducing prostitute adventure with Daleks that manages to have zero to do with Churchill, the Blitz, or Daleks.
And then, I hear, things get good. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love Eleven. I love Amy. I love Moffat, for "Fireplace" if nothing else. I am willing to give this show a chance, week in and week out. Every episode has the option of being wonderful. I hope and need for it to do so. Why not give me the same option? Why not class up the joint just this once and hold back on the nasty mean pathetic bullshit? And also, not to mention: Everything that's happened in these two episodes is gloriously, wonderfully open for later development. Jeff's laptop, Amelia's mysteries, Rory's job as a healer, the duckpond, the Cracks.
This time five years ago, we were just edging up on "The Long Game" -- we'd just closed the deal on two weeks of farting Slitheen (one of whom I fell in love with later, and ended up if you remember handing me the keys to the TARDIS at the end of S1) and the ghosts of Dickens and aliens made of fat and oh! A bunch of shit I couldn't handle. But what happened next is, I fell in love. I joined you; I presumed to join you; I'd like another chance. I'd like to invite you along with me, and I'm sorry if I hurt you: Let's fall in love again.