We don't consider the Wizard of Oz or Father Christmas to be too

Host: The library was vast and timeless, the kind of place where the past seemed to breathe between the bookshelves. Dust floated like stardust through shafts of golden lamplight, and the faint hum of a gramophone in the distance played some forgotten melody — soft, melancholic, eternal. The walls were lined with leather-bound tomes and faded portraits, the smell of paper, ink, and memory thick in the air.

Host: Jack sat in a deep leather chair, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling beside him, the firelight flickering across his face — sharp features softened by thought. Across from him, Jeeny sat curled near the hearth, her hands folded around a well-loved copy of The Wizard of Oz. The pages were yellowed and soft, the kind of book that had survived both time and touch.

Host: On the table between them lay an old scrap of paper, its edges curling with age, on which Peter Capaldi’s words were written in delicate ink:

“We don’t consider the Wizard of Oz or Father Christmas to be too old. They’re still magical characters, and the fact they’ve been around the block only adds to their magic.”

Host: The words glowed faintly in the light of the fire, as if they themselves carried a little of that magic still.

Jack: “You know,” he began, staring into the flames, “it’s funny how we decide which stories get to stay young. Fairies, wizards, saints — they never age. But people do. We forget the human storytellers long before we forget the stories.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point,” she said softly. “Stories don’t need to age. They don’t wrinkle or falter. They outlive their makers so we can remember what it means to believe.”

Jack: “Believe in what? Old men in red suits and talking lions?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “In wonder.”

Host: The fire crackled — a soft percussion between their words. The air was thick with the scent of ash and tea leaves, the glow of the embers dancing across their faces like light caught in memory.

Jack: “Wonder fades, Jeeny. That’s what age is — not years, but erosion. Every birthday takes a piece of it.”

Jeeny: “Only if you stop feeding it,” she said. “The Wizard of Oz is older than our grandparents, but he still feels new every time a child meets him. That’s not erosion. That’s renewal.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his gaze rising toward the rows of books towering above them.

Jack: “So you think age adds to magic?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “Because magic isn’t about mystery — it’s about meaning. When something endures, it becomes sacred. Like the first snowfall. Or the sound of a story you’ve heard a thousand times but still need to hear again.”

Jack: “You make nostalgia sound divine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is,” she said. “Maybe nostalgia is just the soul remembering what it used to trust.”

Host: The gramophone shifted to a new tune — slower now, wistful. A melody from another century filled the air like the heartbeat of time itself.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “I think Capaldi was talking about himself, too. The Doctor, Father Christmas, the Wizard — they’re all the same type of man, really. Carriers of wonder. Anchors for belief. The kind of figures who remind people that imagination doesn’t expire.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “They aren’t bound by youth because they were never meant to be young. They’re timeless because they live wherever awe still exists — in children, in dreamers, in anyone who hasn’t traded curiosity for cynicism.”

Jack: “You think that’s why we need them? So we don’t forget how to imagine?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “Because imagination is what keeps the human spirit young. It’s what keeps us from turning the world into just equations and deadlines. We need stories — old ones especially — because they remind us of who we were before we became too clever to wonder.”

Host: The flames shifted, growing taller, casting shadows of the two across the room — silhouettes that looked, for an instant, like the characters in the stories they spoke of: the seeker and the believer.

Jack: “You know,” he said, his voice quieter now, “there’s something tragic about it too. We make these immortal icons — Santa, Oz, the Doctor — because we can’t stand our own mortality. We build myths to do the living for us.”

Jeeny: “And maybe they do,” she said. “Maybe that’s their gift. Every time a child believes, or an adult lets themselves feel awe again, those myths are alive. They’re not replacements for us — they’re extensions of us. Our better parts, the ones we’ve forgotten how to wear.”

Jack: “So you’re saying we’re all just keeping the myth alive?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly. “And in doing that, we keep something of ourselves alive too.”

Host: The fire popped, sending a spark into the air. Jack watched it rise and vanish — a fleeting ember, a metaphor too perfect to name.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The same story told for a hundred years, and still, it feels like it’s telling us.”

Jeeny: “That’s because stories age the way stars do,” she said. “They burn, and collapse, and scatter, and still, somehow, they find new ways to shine.”

Host: A long silence followed. Outside, the rain began to fall — soft at first, then steady, like the steady rhythm of time itself.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “maybe that’s what magic really is. Not wands or spells or miracles. Just endurance. The ability to keep mattering.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “And the ones who endure — the Wizards, the Doctors, the stories that refuse to die — they’re not old. They’re eternal.”

Host: The fire dimmed slightly, the room sinking into a calm that felt almost sacred. Jeeny closed The Wizard of Oz and set it gently on the table.

Jeeny: “You know what’s beautiful about old magic?” she said. “It never tries to prove itself. It just is.”

Jack: “Like faith.”

Jeeny: “Like memory.”

Host: The camera panned slowly outward — the firelight flickering, the shelves towering, the two figures surrounded by centuries of words that refused to fade. The music from the gramophone softened into silence, replaced by the whisper of rain against the window.

Host: And as the shot lingered, the words on the old note glowed faintly once more, as if time itself approved:

“We don’t consider the Wizard of Oz or Father Christmas to be too old. They’re still magical characters, and the fact they’ve been around the block only adds to their magic.”

Host: Because true magic isn’t youth — it’s endurance. And the stories that never die aren’t trapped in time — they’re the ones that teach us how to live beyond it.