There was Gerry Rafferty just the other day. Wonderful artist who made going down to London that bit more special with his Baker Street – although, to be honest, for a kid from the countryside, the going down to London with my first partner was a magical business in the first place.

But, he was in his 60s. And he had a problem with drinking. It’s understandable.

There was the guy that wrote the book that later became the film ‘Babe’, which we watched just before Christmas. No, it’s OK. He was 88, for goodness sake.

And then there was Mick Karn. Who? You may ask that. I wasn’t sure. Turns out he was the bassist from Japan that group that had, erm, what was it now – that hit or two in the 80s.

But, the thing is, as you get a bit older, you start to catch up these people who are dying left, right and centre. And Mick Karn? Well, he was my age. So was Michael Jackson and he’s gone already. So is Madonna (although she seems in the rudest of health).

But it makes you think. Well, it kind of stops you in your tracks for a moment. I mean, some of these dead people are my age or less. Or, if older, then not a lifetime older. Kind of makes you grateful you’ve survived this long, really, doesn’t it?