I’ve just returned from seeing Rogue One, a film I enjoyed but wasn’t able to fully embrace because… well, I can’t seem to fully embrace anything at the moment. Everything feels like grey sludge. A porridgy version of the mudlake Atreyu’s horse drowns in during The Never-Ending Story. At least he fucking drowned.

Christmas Day, Boxing Day, even past events like my friend’s wedding and Alan-sodding-Partridge’s new book now feel soured and tainted. They leave a bitter taste which I try to ignore, but can’t. At least Rogue One was able to distract me a bit – right up until the final moments when the realisation of Carrie Fisher’s death really hit home and sent me over the edge. I burst into tears, sobbing openly beside my friend and unable to speak for much of the way home. I’m lucky that he doesn’t ask too many questions.

It’s not just Carrie’s death that set me off. That was sad and was definitely the trigger, but it was not the source. I’ve found myself crying about everything from dropping my car keys to realising I never actually started my bargain, 50p advent calendar. I’ve cried about wanting to be alone and I’ve cried when I am alone, and once those floodgates open, I feel every sadness, every angry thought, every bitter word pouring out of me.


My brain, as the eminently quotable Bernard Black once said, is falling apart like bits of wet cake. And although this is the part where I should say “I would not wish this on anyone,” that’s not quite true. There is someone I would wish it on, but – wish in one hand and shit in the other, and see which fills up first.

I already know the answer to that one.