So long 2011 television, it's been emotional. Alfred Hitchcock once said that television "has done much for psychiatry by spreading information about it, as well as contributing to the need for it". Now, he may well have said this during the previous century, but if you told me he said it having just watched an episode of Desperate Scousewives I'd totally believe you.
I'm using Christmas downtime, hope it's not perverse, to look back at the last year, entirely in rhyme.
The Downton Abbey special, to be screened on Christmas Day, has already come under fire for its misrepresentation of '20s fashions. Former editor of the Shooting Times, Tony Jackson has publicly berated the episode in the Daily Telegraph over a promotional still which shows a shooting party wearing leather gaiters. Disgusting, right?
If you could write to a Santa that existed, one who might reward you for being good, what would you ask for? Would you ask for a flat in Sloane Square? Someone to love and care for? Reassurance that we're doing ok, all things considered?
Indeed there is no shying away from the parallels in this exhibition with so much modern entertainment. Celebrity worship is another human constant; and with celebrity, as any Hugh Grant or Steve Coogan knows, comes sex, obsession and the baying British press.
Lady Mary and her frightfully common suitor are now engaged. Muddying these clear, business-like waters however is Lady Mary's longing for Downton Abbey's heir, Matthew Crawley. Which raises the question - what happened back then when one party wanted to break off an engagement?
The issue of whether girls are entitled to inherit - be it the throne, a title, or a whacking great pile somewhere in the heart of Berkshire floggable to passing film crews - isn't one that'll affect most of us on a personal level. And yet I still find it shocking that it's taken until 2011 for it to come up as a parliamentary issue.
For many of us - especially perhaps Liam Fox this week - escapism is everything. From boredom. From endless Loose Women. From feelings of being as vastly unfulfilled as a Little Chef chef. Downton Abbey is one such retreat. It looks nice, it sounds nice and I bet it would smell nice too.
While Downton Abbey begins to flex its narrative muscles, Spooks, in its final season, has the far harder task of going out with a bang, not a whimper, while somehow satisfactorily tying up all the loose ends - by which, obviously, I mean section chief Harry Pearce and trusty sidekick Ruth Evershed finally eschewing love for country in favour of something a little less abstract.