Well, despite the fact that my car appears to be trying to kill me in a dramatic fashion and has attempted this at least twice, and my poncy watch has developed its own notions of timekeeping that don't match up with the rotation of the earth, and despite the looming doom-laden Brexit horror, I am not miserable. This is a complete mystery to me but I'm not complaining about it.
The Christmas leftovers have lasted until today (Brussels sprouts and Pannetone, a thrilling combination!), and for some reason I slept for nine hours yesterday, followed by a very pleasant two hour chat with Enid Williams from Girlschool on the house phone that normally only rings when the dentist's assistant dials the wrong number, and the digestion of the BBC documentary about Bros, After the Screaming Stops, which everyone seems to be talking about.
It's such a brilliant documentary: so tenderly filmed and so brave.
What a miracle that Luke and Matt Goss survived intact, after the shafting they got from the music industry. Some people have been mocking them for saying silly things but they are just ordinary blokes in an extraordinary situation; some people have said they are damaged but they are not, particularly.
Their sibling rivalry is laid bare but anyone with a brother or sister or two would recognise the spats, the grimaces, the failed attempts at manipulation and the competition between siblings.
What was really touching was the sequence where they talked about sharing a dart between them; they had no dart board but just used to throw it up in the air, with obvious consequences.
Grandad mended the hole in Matt's ribs, and they went out and continued to play.
I remembered a dream from five years ago where I sang backing vocals for them at Wembley.
I was a mermaid in the dream, which is just as likely as singing backing vocals for Bros!