I Don’t Like Jelly Babies

It was May 1978, and my days in primary school were ending. Ahead of me lay the promise of languorous summer months; a sun-drenched, rain-soaked riot of street games and shared roller skates, punctuated occasionally by moments of pleasant boredom. There’d be no adventures, at least not until the end of the holidays when I’d find myself at the "big school", a place where the fourth-year lassies would, I was told, plunge my innocent head into a toilet pan every day. But that horror was for the future. Until then, it would be just another normal summer. Or so I thought.

The first sign that something was different came when my mother arrived home from work one night and waved a copy of the Evening Times under my nose. This wasn’t an attempt to draw my attention to noteworthy world events, although as the year progressed, we’d discuss test-tube babies, panic buying of bread during "The Winter of Discontent", and a new soap opera about a family business in Dallas. Looking back, it all seems so innocent, but living through it felt exciting – albeit not as exciting as the article on page thirteen of the newspaper. It took just four words – Timelord to visit city – to send me into a paroxysm of joy. I could hardly believe what I was reading, but there it was in black and white: Tom Baker would sign books in the Argyle Street branch of John Menzies on Saturday! The Doctor was coming to Glasgow, and the world shifted under my feet.

In common with most children of that era, Saturday teatime meant watching Doctor Who, sometimes from behind the sofa, or at the very least, through splayed fingers. Every episode scared the living daylights out of me. But, no matter how bad it was, I’d be back in my usual place the following week, battling the Daleks and the Cybermen all over again. To say I was obsessed with the show would be an understatement. And my other obsession, reading, soon bled into it, as I slowly amassed a healthy selection of tie-in books to keep me going when the series ended for the year. And here, out of the blue, was an opportunity to get not just another Doctor Who book, but one signed by The Doctor himself. I simply had to get myself into John Menzies that Saturday morning. Luckily for me, my mother agreed.

And so, after what felt like a year, Saturday finally arrived, and with a pound note tucked into my pocket, I boarded the number 5 bus and headed on my own into the city centre. When the old charabanc finally trundled to a halt in St. Enoch’s Square, I ran (perish the thought now!) all the way to the shop, arriving purple-faced and breathless, in an instant becoming just one of a thousand excited children, almost all bedecked in Doctor Who tee-shirts, flared denim, and white sandshoes. There was no doubt about it; I was in the right place. Unfortunately, I was also at the end of a very long, snaking queue but I didn’t let it faze me. The Doctor was at the other end of that queue so I was happy to wait.

Time passed pleasantly enough, and before too long I was inside the shop where a terrified-looking assistant ushered me through the barrier and down the escalator. I was getting close. In fact, I was getting so close I could hear him. The Doctor’s unmistakable voice was now less than twenty feet ahead of me! With little time to spare, and from a conveniently placed table, I chose my book, The Terror of the Zygons. Then I joined the final line and there were just ten children in front of me. Then it was nine, which quickly became eight, and then... suddenly, it was my turn. As I approached the table, the Time-lordy mass of curls and huge, shiny teeth said, “Hello, I’m The Doctor. What’s your name?” And I said... well, I said nothing, because I froze. Rooted to the spot, I stood, star-struck and unable to speak. To his credit, the man from Gallifrey spotted my predicament, and he took the book from my sweaty hand and signed it. Then he grinned, put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a paper bag, which he held out to me. “Would you like a Jelly Baby?” he said. From somewhere deep within me I found my voice, and I squeaked out, “No thank you, I don’t like Jelly Babies.” Oh, how he laughed, his guffaws booming across the basement. Then it was time to go, and the hand that wielded the sonic screwdriver every Saturday shook mine, and off I went, shocked and bewildered, having had the time of my life.

The Doctor has changed his face many times since 1978, and I must admit that mine has changed too as the decades have fallen away, one by one. Despite this, I can’t help feeling that in the years since my big adventure, time has looped back on itself. Think about it: Abba came back. Argentina once again won the World Cup. We’ve just had a summer, autumn and winter of discontent and we’ve had a pandemic that led to panic buying of toilet paper instead of bread. Even good old Scotland got to the Euros for yet another glorious failure, although they didn’t treat us to a goal like Archie Gemmell’s against Holland back in ’78. I suppose some things never change. I know I haven’t. To this day, I spend many a happy hour having adventures in the TARDIS or with my nose stuck in a book. And funnily enough, I still don’t like Jelly Babies.