Well, I’m sitting here with my first copy of Doctor Who Battles in Time!
There it is, sat patiently in its thick cardboard backing, cards safely wrapped up on the right hand side, waiting for me to unwrap them. But I won’t…
No it’s not that either. So why can’t I open the damn thing?
Could it be… yes, yes that’s it. Fear. Fear of what this represents, should I open it and examine the cards. Oh I’ve been here before, I can tell you.
1982. Millennium Falcon. Original Millennium Falcon. Huge it was, with photos of the interior and Luke and Han and Obi-Wan Kenobi on the box. I remember the box, but luckily I’ve had my memory jogged by eBay.co.uk, which also reminded me how the actual toy looked, because I no longer have that either.
1984, meanwhile, was Optimus Prime year. I still have the old red juggernaut – in three guises – but the original is the best. I remember his box too, without the help of an online auction this time, because I cut it up! All for the special points on the back of the boxes which I saved up and bought a cardboard Autobot base with!
So, you see, opening my cards does something to my copy of Doctor Who Battles in Time. It makes it used. Its value vanishes in a blink of an eye. I won’t be able to auction it for 20 times its original value in 30 years time because the cards will be played with, and the pages of the magazine well-thumbed. It will have become part of my life, part of my relationship with Doctor Who…
…and as such, making it truly valuable. Monetary value holds know sway over love, as any fan knows – we’ll buy anything, regardless, just because it says “Doctor Who” on it.
Do you know what? Even if my Millennium Falcon and Optimus Prime were still boxed, I would never have sold them, ‘cause I loved them, and I still do.
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