Death has been very much on my mind of late. Partly due to the calls I get from Social Services in London about Dad (they are idiots who have been told time and time again that I live over 500 miles away and should, in the first instance, contact my brothers). Partly as I am getting close to the age my Mum was when she died. It's an odd sensation every time I look at her picture where she never ages, whereas my reflection in the mirror is lined and grayer.
Partly because a dear old colleague recently told us that he has pancreatic cancer and is unlikely to last the year. That was a shocker out of the blue.
And then there are the celebrities who are dying. This year has been relentless and we are only into April. Now I didn't know them personally. Their deaths have not hit me in the same way as that of a family member or friend. But the grief is still real because it is grief for what was and can never be again. Some of the ones that have passed this year formed the backdrop to my life growing up - they were the soundtrack to my lifelong love of music and comedy. I defy anyone to claim that The Ballad of Barry and Freda is not some of the finest songwriting there is. Or that hearing the latest Bowie release was not thrilling. We won't get that again.
And as they pass, I find myself increasingly in a world that is just memories. The artists of today cannot measure up to these.
In 1988 I was very lucky to go to Wembley stadium to see Michael Jackson perform. It was a great concert. But a month later I saw Prince at Wembley Arena and I was blown away. I've been wearing purple ever since.