So there I was this morning, deep in the zone, when Angela (who used to work nearby but has now been relocated to lord-knows-where) peered over my shoulder and said, in an understandably muffled voice, "Are you my mummy?"
Doctor Who fans will smile appreciatively, while the rest will wonder what the question could possibly mean, even on Halloween, since neither of us is wrapped in bandages.)
I have to say, ordering an authentic WWII-era gas mask (Angela's was German, rather than British, but I think dwelling on that would be quibbling in the larger context) to complete the effect clearly identifies her as having transcended fandom for connoisseurship. You can't quite tell from the dodgy camera-phone image, but that's a (disturbingly convincing) bleeding wound on the back of her hand, which is nice added hat-tip toward the story.
I went completely the other direction, toward elegant simplicity.
I secretly hoped someone would compliment me on my Groucho nose so I could give them a withering stare and say, What Groucho nose?, but no takers.
(Postscript: I had forgotten how good Christopher Eccleston was as the Ninth Doctor. He was overshadowed by David Tennant's Tenth Doctor, but Eccleston had the more difficult job: Jump-starting a jealously guarded quarter-century cultural tradition after a long hiatus.)