Doctor! No!

It's always hard watching the decline of a dear, beloved old friend. And yet that's how I've spent the last few years. As I write this, he's nearing his end, so they tell me. We first met when I was very young but I didn't form any real, lasting attachment until later. After fleeting glimpses, we became properly acquainted in the school library. I was twelve. He was several hundred years old. His name was the Doctor, and I cannot love him anymore.

Right now I'm supposedly catching up with the episode I missed on Christmas Day, mainly because I'm going back to work tomorrow and someone's bound to want to talk to me about it, plus I'm expecting an e-mail from a ten year old who may expect me to make intelligent remarks about the storyline. And all I can do is whimper, "But it's drivel!"

Way back in, oh, when was it? 2002? 2003? I waited with some trepidation to see how the revamped Doctor Who would fare. To my surprised relief, it was a success. Christopher Eccleston was dynamic, Billie Piper didn't sing and it could only have been bettered if Charles Dickens had stayed on as a companion.

Slide forward a few years. Picture this: a small, ethnically and sexually diverse, group in a contained setting, in peril from something huge and powerful. One of their number may have psychic tendencies, one will be there for comic relief. There will be a woman, probably comely, almost definitely young and bosomy. The Doctor will arrive. Things will go awry. There will be explosions. At least two of the small, ethnically and sexually diverse, group will die horribly. There will be more explosions and some sort of extended chase sequence, possibly featuring hi tech motorised vehicles. The comely woman will kiss the Doctor, unless she is Lindsay Duncan and therefore too old to kiss anyone. If John Barrowman is in it, he will probably kiss the Doctor as well. The Doctor will realise with horror that simply waving his sonic screwdriver around is not enough and they are all doomed, so the comely woman will sacrifice herself nobly and David Tennant will do that stricken spaniel look he's had so many opportunities to perfect.

Which episode am I describing? Waters of Mars? The one that was on at Easter with the girl who used to be in Eastenders? The one with Kylie? The one with Georgia Moffett as the Doctor's daughter?

Having sat through the first part of David Tennant's swansong, my mental checklist has been marked off comprehensively. Gratuitous Christmas references? Check. Cheery mockney autopilot from Tennant to ease viewers into story before the Serious Expression sets in for the duration? Check. Portentous staring into the distance by Messers Tennant and Cribbins? Check. Shameless pantomime from John Simm? Check. Pointlessly long chase sequence? Check. Ludicrous special powers bestowed on the villain for no reason? Check. Unfunny comedy sequence featuring stars of yesteryear? Check. Crude forcing of TARDIS and/or Doctor into Christian imagery? Check. [For the record, I'm not a practising anything, more of an amateur theist, but I found this offensive in its arrogance.] Bangs, explosions and special effects at the expense of an intelligent script? Check. Over the top threat to humanity that is merely risible? Check. We're just missing cameos from Billie and Freema Agyeman to give me a full house.

When the Master complained of the drums in his head, can I have been the only one blaming Murray Gold's deafening soundtrack?

I'm not anti-Tennant. I spent three hours of Boxing Day almost glued to Hamlet. [Three hours at teatime is not ideal scheduling. At least there's an interval in live theatre. Thankfully, I was handed a toasted bagel during Polonius's slaying.] He's a good actor but not with recycled, effects-first-storyline-second scripting.

Doctor Who used to be a children's programme. I watched it as a child. I soaked up morality and science, adventure and history. Twenty-odd years on, when I finally got to call myself doctor (the indefinite article, I must note), it was a bit late to realise that it was the sense of narrative that was strongest in me and not the science. Still, those letters look pretty on the CV.

But this series now, this sound and fury, what does it signify? Is it going to inspire anything in today's children other than a desire for the toys and the DVDs and all the rest of the merchandising hoopla? While the children I know (of various ages from small to pensionable) enjoy the bangs and the spectacle, the child in me is huddled miserably in the corner, longing for the Target novelisation of The Ark In Space.

Doctor Who has regenerated into something I no longer recognise. All I can do is mourn.

Goodwill to all mankind (that includes shopworkers)

So, in the immortal words of Noddy Holder, here it is. Three and a half weeks to go until the big day. In shops and stores across the world, consumers are suffering varying levels of festive stress. In need of an outlet for this building pressure, they seize on the best virtual punchbag known to retail: the poor soul behind the counter.

This underpaid minion has not been wearing tinsel and reindeer antlers since the middle of October of their own volition. It is a Management Directive. They are not smiling at you because they are delighted at your custom. It is a rictus forced upon them on pain of unemployment. If at times this becomes a little tiring and they look a little surly, do not blame them, for their feet ache, the remorseless lighting and the relentlessly looped Christmas music have given them a splitting headache, and the general public at large, endured en masse, day in, day out, rot the soul.

You're at work. You're doing your job as best you can. Somebody comes up to you expecting to be treated with respect, nay, honour. They are The Customer. You smile, offer a polite greeting. The customer blanks you completely to bawl into their mobile phone. You scan their items and wait for payment. The customer continues to ignore you. A queue builds. Eventually the customer shoves a card at you, still talking, not making eye contact. Some time later, they deign to enter their PIN code into the machine. You finish the transaction and present their card, goods and receipt with a smile now a little frayed around the edges. They snatch the lot and leave without a backward glance, still yakking. If you're lucky, the next customer will give you a word or a look of sympathy. If you're unlucky, they'll be on the phone.

If you've never worked on the wrong side of a service point, you cannot imagine the rudeness, the venom that is spat at someone in no position to defend themselves. Ninety-five per cent of the time, it's not their fault but still they have to apologise for the perceived mistakes of others.

Today (not in my workplace) I heard a customer spend at least twenty minutes haranguing a man behind a counter for something that was a) not his fault, b) inconvenient but not insurmountable and c) temporary. All this in tones of real nastiness. It's a tone I hear a lot, sometimes directed at me, sometimes at other people.

When you're out and about, in shops, in public service offices, hanging on the phone to call centres, listen to yourself. Not just to what you say, but how you say it.

So you're having a bad day. So nothing's going right. We're sorry for your troubles. We're doing all we can.

Swear inside your head, not at us. Better still, take a deep breath and try to appreciate that we want to help if you'll let us, but if you carry on treating us like dirt we'll decide you're not worth the bother.

This may amaze you, but people in customer service have feelings too.