The Doctor: Oh, now what's this, then? I love this. A big, flashy-lighty thing. That's what brought me here. Big, flashy-lighty things have got me written all over them. Not actually, but give me time... and a crayon.

I'll be a story in your head. That's okay. We're all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? 'Cause it was, you know. It was the best. The daft old man who stole a magic box and ran away. Did I ever tell you that I stole it? Well I borrowed it. I was always going to take it back.

Like most writers, I write about what has happened to me as that involves the minimum amount of research.

I always rip out the last page of a book. Then it doesn't have to end. I hate endings!

I write the kind of stuff I'd like to watch.

The Doctor: Oh, now what's this, then? I love this. A big, flashy-lighty thing. That's what brought me here. Big, flashy-lighty things have got me written all over them. Not actually, but give me time... and a crayon.

You could only draw conclusions about my personal sexual politics if you proceed from the assumption that I was presenting the characters as the way it is and the way it ought to be. But both are clearly defined as deranged – it’s love among the mad. He’s a psycopath, so is she. She’s prepared to throw him to the dogs until he works out the code, he’s prepared to let her nearly get executed. They’re not really going to buy a house and a Volvo together. I’m not saying this is how people should date!