Hello, four minutes after ten is the time. Happy New Year. Can I borrow you for a moment? Can I indulge you?

Would you indulge me rather from? This is the weirdest bit of my year. Even more so than when I come back from a summer holiday, I don't know why, even though this is shorter. I haven't taken two weeks off. It's about a week in a bit, wasn't it? Not much more than a week in a day, I don't think, really. But this is the moment when I wonder whether I'm still going to be able to do this.

Because it's not the most normal way to make a living, is it?

It's not, you know, common a garden, as it were.

This is the moment where I wonder, I don't quite have anxiety dreams about it.

But I do sometimes over the Christmas period,

as I reach for that unnecessary sprout, I do find myself wondering, what is he, what do you do

you do? You turn up. The light comes on. Keith looks temporarily less blank than usual.

And then you have to somehow do stuff and then

the phones will ring and then people will talk to you. I think this might be the year where we

start like booking loads of guests so that that frisson of fear that we won't be able to

keep the ship afloat without the help of the I don't't know, the royal correspondent of the daily dobbins or something

coming on to fill the gaps that I prefer to fill myself or invite you to talk.

So this is the moment.

Five minutes after ten is the time.

By about 20 past, I'll know whether this is the year where the game is up.

The gig is over.

The horse is bolted.

I miss you too, by the way.

Thank you very much for all the nice comments.

It's, as I say, a very odd way to make a living.

But I miss the interaction that we have together every morning,

...