Britain is once again grinding to a halt as a nation, as the most traumatic few weeks in this proud nation's history plod gracelessly to an impossibly sombre denouement.
We have the credit crunch, we had the snow, we had the ice, we had the rain, we had Carol Vorderman leaving Countdown, we had Mrs T's daughter sacked by the BBC, we had the inquisition of senior figures in the world of banking by Members of Parliament, which we probably should have let the Spanish conduct - they're historically better at that sort of thing (Inquisitioning) than we are, and at football too. We've even - horror of horrors - had Dierdre stating that she might leave Coronation Street...
As we collectively reel from the horrors of everyday life wondering whatever the heck lies next...we get Friday the 13th.
As in the days of the great quarter inch blizzards, millions of Brits are expected to take another day off work as the infrastructure of the nation falls apart, except instead of going on sledging expeditions they'll be taking the family out armed with edged weapons on a hunt for hockey mask wearing serial killers.
Then it's Saint Valentine's Day.
That day in the year when British males acknowledge the contribution made by their head cook and bottle washer, aka the wife, with a box of cheap chocolates, a bottle of asti spumante, and a male cooked dinner such as beans on toast.
And some flowers from the petrol station.
More of what we get when we finally figure out what the hell it was we were prattling on about in the first place.