All is grist that comes to a columnist’s mill. The late Alan Coren once wrote that if he heard a screech of tyres in the road outside his house, he rushed out, notebook in hand, ‘because you never know where the next 300 words are coming from’. I find that the Anniversary Almanac can be a reliable source of copy during thin times; my particular favourites being 40th, 50th and 60th anniversaries because they’re all potentially still in living memory. I’m already eyeing up anniversary options for 2023. And here’s an early heads-up – expect a deluge of words to mark the 60th anniversary of JFK’s assassination. Just as everyone remembers where they were when they heard Princess Diana had died, so those who were sentient on 22 November 1963 can recall the exact moment they learned of the president’s death.

For some, it was career-defining, as in the case of a London newspaper editor I once worked for, Bob Hutchings. He longed to work for a big American title, and bombarded US papers with job applications. Finally, he got a bite – from the Los Angeles Times. If he could show up in the editor’s office in 48 hours, he’d be given a month’s trial. Bob was on a plane from London the next morning. But bad weather delayed him. He landed at LAX barely an hour before deadline, threw a fistful of dollars at a Checker cab driver, skidded away and lurched up outside the Times office with five minutes to spare. Rushing across the vast lobby to the lifts, he was dimly aware of an atmosphere, all around him. Sounds of sobbing. Bowed heads. Hugging. No time for that. He emerged on to the executive floor and stalked straight into the editor’s office. A beehived blonde receptionist blocked his way, eyes red-rimmed. ‘Mr Hutchings? I’m so sorry, your meeting with the editor is cancelled. You’ve heard what’s happened? Our president’s been shot dead!’ It never even crossed Bob’s mind that she meant Kennedy. He thought she must be talking about the president of the corporation that owned the LA Times. But before he could react or say a word, the editor himself burst out from his office. ‘You Bob? You heard? Our president’s dead! Sniper shot him in the head! Jesus H. Christ!’

‘Yes, I’ve just been told. How shocking. Excuse me… but what was his name?’

What immediately followed, Bob said, was mostly a blur, but he found himself back on the pavement two minutes later. Oddly, they didn’t give him the job.

I get on well with Susanna Reid, my co-host on Good Morning Britain, but we crossed swords this week over the weather – or rather, about January. I loathe January. Dark and cold and wet and dreary. ‘Can’t we just cancel it?’ I asked grumpily. ‘What? It’s lovely! New beginnings! Longer days! Shorter nights!’ she replied. And then, a few hours later, Judy and I arrived in Cornwall to find a host of golden daffodils nodding in our paddock, and I thought that Susanna, along with Wordsworth, may have a point. 

I know exactly who gave me the cold/cough/sinusitis/upper respiratory tract nightmare infection I’ve had now for six weeks. Maybe you suspect the person responsible for ruining your Christmas, too. I suppose childish acts of revenge are out of the question, but I’m reminded of a Private Eye cartoon in the middle of an earlier winter plague. Two men are sitting together, both dabbing their noses with handkerchiefs. One: ‘I seem to have given you my cold. I hope you don’t mind.’ The other: ‘On the contrary, I resent it with a force of feeling I am not verbally qualified to describe. So what I shall do is purchase a ledger especially for the purpose, inscribe it with your name, and refer to it from time to time in order to keep alive the grudge I will hold against you until the day I die.’

I see White Lotus sex god Theo James is going to play George Michael in a biopic of the singer’s life. Theo’s a fantastic actor and I think he’ll do George proud. George was a neighbour of ours and after he donated a ridiculous amount of money to a Christmas charity that Judy and I had launched, we invited him round for Sunday lunch so we could thank him. ‘No carbs, I’m on tour,’ he instructed as he crossed the threshold. (George Michael! In our front hall!) Later he nicked a roastie from everyone’s plate. A much-missed man.