I’ve always had the temperament of an avid collector. As a toddler, it was die-cast trains from Thomas the Tank Engine, that I would line up in perfect, straight formations. At six, it was comics and Beano annuals, stacked dangerously high as monumental paper mounds. But by far the biggest collection was my staggering collection of Doctor Who figures, that still, to this day, I have an enormous soft spot for.
In 2005, Doctor Who was a revelation. It was dark and angsty enough for a child to consider it mature and adult, but hokey and ridiculous enough to still tap into that boyish sense of wonder. For my eighth birthday, I was gifted a plastic facsimile of David Tennant, complete with a sculpted quiff and his trademark long coat and pinstripes. He came with a miniature sonic screwdriver that I almost immediately lost. Despite only being around five inches tall, he loomed like a giant in my toybox. His presence afforded me the ability to tell my own Doctor Who stories, alleviating that agonising wait between weekly episodes.
That gift unknowingly started a chain reaction that lasted the next nine or so years. Soon, I had amassed a miniature representation of just about every major character from the show, from friends and companions, to enemies and monsters. Other interests evaporated, and birthday money was spent on little else. I can pinpoint sections of my childhood when all I was thinking about was where to find the next model in my set. I imagine I became an irritation to my parents and local Argos employees, demanding to see the full range so I could make increasingly specific selections. But how else was I supposed to complete the build-a-figure K1 robot? Or reunite the entire Cult of Skaro? Or recreate The End Of Time without Rassilon?
My childhood bedroom had a bunk bed, and my display was positioned precariously onto the surface of an old desk, balancing onto the soft springiness of the lower mattress beneath. When it was time for bed, that first foot on the rickety wooden ladder would cause the toys to topple, as though some awful, sweeping catastrophe had befallen my characters. This meant that every single day, I would lovingly restage and restructure my diorama, to minuscule, meticulous precision. Only The Face of Boe, The Daleks, The Moxx of Balhoon - all those on castors - remained upright.
The collection pretty much ended in my late teens, on another birthday. My parents had bought me The Eleven Doctors set, displayed in a cardboard and velcro box styled to look like the TARDIS. It was a wonderful gift that I treasured, though subconsciously considered to be the capper for my assembly.
Eventually, I swapped out the Doctor Who toys for other science fiction characters, with an oxymoronical range of "adult" action figures for franchises such as The Terminator, Alien and Predator. The chipped, painted nose of David Tennant was replaced by the brutal, robotic face of Schwarzenegger, red eyes peering within plastic sockets of gore and metal.
However, at sixteen, I (rightfully) determined that collecting what were essentially dolls, was perhaps getting in the way of any romantic entanglements. I slowly weaned off my toys, and eventually went completely cold turkey, until the models disappeared from my life for good. The itch for hoarding was passed onto my still ongoing purchasing of novels, and the models went into storage.
As I’ve gotten older, I look back fondly on the many years spent collecting. I don't think I've ever been as happy, before or since, just sitting cross legged on my wooden floor, squinting at my collection, lining up a series of invading monsters and villains, with the heroic characters awkwardly cutting shapes with their hinged elbows and knees. Their emotionless faces perfectly encapsulated fear, joy, and laughter, whatever the current story demanded, in the depths of my imagination.
For my twenty-third birthday, my then housemate bought me an action figure of Bradley Walsh's character from the current series, as a knowing rib to my childhood obsession with the toys. The smell of the plastic, the pliancy and movement of the articulation, brought me back to an age of childhood innocence and wonder. I honestly nearly wept, though this could have partly due to the prosecco I had also been gifted.
When I return to my parent’s home, I am often asked what can be gotten rid of, to help clear space for the now spare rooms. Clothes, teddy bears and Happy Meal tat can all go onto the landfill of forgotten childhood memories for all I care, to populate the musty shelves of an Oxfam. But my army of Doctor Who action figures, my brigade of monsters and grotesqueries, must remain in place.
As an adult, I am no longer as beholden to what my immediate peers think is cool or not. In times of genuine misery and heartbreak, I find a sense of solace and bittersweet nostalgia reliving those childhood adventures. I fear that one day there will be nothing silencing that inner voice, that social pressure, or even financial responsibility, that prevents me from reigniting my ongoing recruitment to my hundreds-strong legion of aliens and creatures.
“What’s stopping you, Lewis? There’s a B&M bargains right over there. Why don’t you pick yourself up a Silurian three pack from Warriors Of The Deep?”
Only time, and space, will tell.