I had last week off work and during that time I ticked off most of the Christmas shopping, caught up with some long-neglected friends and even dragged my expanding backside to the gym.
I usually plug myself into my iPod, assume the position and give off silent vibes to anyone else in the gym who may know me to stay away.
It’s a sweaty horror that makes me feel on top of the world once it’s over. But during the many, many minutes spent trying to raise my heart rate above barely-alive levels, my mind usually shuts down and I enter what fitness instructors of the ’80s would call The Zone.
Not so last week. There was something a bit good to watch on the gym’s televisions.
No, it wasn’t Sky Sports and the latest twist in the football fixing scandal.
And it most certainly wasn’t Loose Women. Makes me shudder just to think of it.
No, it was the coverage of Nelson Mandela’s memorial service.
Not for them widow’s weeds and a body laid out in the front parlour so people can pay their last respects in hushed tones.
Perhaps that’s too Dickensian and we’ve moved on from that, but for us here in the UK funerals still err on the side of sombre.
Certainly we do not wish for people to dance upon our graves, waving their hands with glee, singing and ululating at the top of their voices.
I can’t be sure, but I don’t think anyone will be dancing on my grave when I pop off. Who knows, though, there’s still time. I can hope.
But that’s just what happens in Africa and watching on the television, sweating away on the cross-trainer, I was amazed at the vast number of people mourning Mandela the best way they know how.
Apart from David Cameron that is, who was busy posing for Danish prime minister Helle Thorning-Schmidt’s now infamous selfie of her with him and Barack Obama.
Amongst the dancing and singing, I reckon it was still a crass thing to do – even if she is the daughter-in-law of Neil Kinnock which, apparently, makes it okay according to the PM.
Well, I have news for him. It doesn’t.