January is the worst month. It's cold, it's grim, no one has any money, and everyone is trying so hard to go dry or be vegan that no one seems to have any time for anything fun.
Today, Terry Wogan died. I annoyed Wogan on live television once with the help of some friends, using a gigantic banner on which the words "Terry, sing the Floral Dance!" were roughly painted. He never did sing it, but it was still a classic moment. I'm not alone in wanting to write off this whole month for all the remarkable people who have died. I've already written about Alan Rickman and David Bowie, both taken far too young (but Doctor Who Comic is reprinting the eleventh Doctor comics with thin Bowie stand-in John Jones as companion, culminating this month with his apparent death, laden with Bowie lyrics. It's spectacular timing but a little too soon to not be unsettling). The talented TV writer Robert Banks Stewart, actor David Margulies, Eagles frontman Glenn Frey, classic thesp Frank Finlay - not young people, but remarkable people, sadly missed.
However... I have got to spend a lot of time with my ridiculous and wonderful girlfriend. We went to see The Mousetrap last week, which I have finally seen after many years of meaning to; it starred Louise Jameson and was surprisingly hilarious. Bloody brilliant. We had a comedy exchange: I introduced Suz to Simon Munnery and she showed me Foil, Arm and Hog. She got me to go to a club I haven't been to for at least ten years and I had a fine time. Didn't cut it up like last time, but then, this time I wasn't dressed for it.
Work's pretty good; I've a ton of extra work on top of the everyday stuff, but overall it's going OK. I'm not really sleeping, so I'm busy and exhausted, but altogether I think I'm OK. January is over, the year shall surely get better.