Through it all, Anne Kirkbride remained one of the Street's most robust pillars - the youngest of that generation of stars who gave their whole working life to a TV soap, came into people's homes three times a week, entertained them and, in return, earned a place in our collective affection denied much bigger screen stars.
I think it's normal to feel a bit weird at this time of year. We build up Christmas to such a fever pitch of twee imagination and rose-tinted memories that it can end up feel disappointing and miserable. Sometimes, surrounded by a barrage of Good Will to All Men and Joy to the World and Christmas Cheer, we feel lost and alone, longing for a feeling we can't find anymore.
The smell of one-sided toast with melted butter - it was always done on just one side under the grill, crisp and melty. Tea for the grown-ups, milk for us. Sitting by the fire that my grandmother had set when she got up at half six, as she did every morning.
Oh we're a funny breed, I think as I exit the cafe, white headphones in ears and head bowed low to play battle against the early autumn wind, already anticipating my next solo coffee shop excursion.
Why is Hollywood fixated on turning everything from the childhood of twenty and thirty somethings into a movie franchise? Because we love nostalgia! Nobody knows that better than Doug Walker, also known as the Nostalgia Critic, who writes and hosts a web series scrutinising the treasures of our youth with comically brutal honesty.
Michael Grade, onetime Controller of BBC 1, introduced Tony and they settled down on a sofa for a fascinating walk through Tony's musical life, interspersed with renditions of his songs by guests ranging from Marti Webb, Joe McElderry and Rhydian to one very special guest who, like the biblical good wine, was kept till last.
On the day that the world's arguably biggest, definitely first, plasticine superstar climbs back out of his pencil case and makes his return to public life, he has found time in his red carpet schedule to join in HuffPostUK's third birthday celebrations, with these three golden nuggets of advice.
"You can't cancel!" shrills the voice on the phone. "It's in the diary. That's final!" Though I'm hardly a model of reliability, it is my friend who flakes on our arrangements most, and I'm offended by the implication of her words. What does she mean 'I can't cancel'? Why does she care suddenly?
It's St Patrick's weekend in Northern Ireland, and the lawnmowers are limbering up. For a week or two, now, the rainfall has slowed, the birds have been singing for nesting territory, and underpinning their chorus is that lower, guttural sound: the growling of the First Lawnmowers of Spring.
No purples. No green triangle things. No Orange Crunch. No Caramel. Even my secret back-up of orange creams were gone. All that greeted me was a sea of red, blue and gold.
The more I read the more I see real connections between genealogy/working on our family history/ancestry and the psychological benefits of the nostalgia it might trigger!
"Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking" has a mind-boggling scope. It isn't only about recipes and tastes. It is also about culinary habits, traditions and government policies.
This week was all about endings and beginnings. Markers in the sand. Moments in life that demand reflection and resolve. The first was the final goodbye to Collier's Garage, the old Citroën car repair workshop where my business has been running since November 2011.
Dial-up internet is dead - that screechy, slow-moving stalwart of the '90s is no more. Or at least that's the impression you'd get from the headlines over the last few weeks.
I've been writing screenplays for horror movies and splashing around in the shallow end of the film industry for a decade now. Horror has become my comfort zone, albeit with a hefty splash of comedy to help the dark stuff go down. It wasn't always that way...
In my own youth; we called everyone in our street, 'aunty or uncle' and could nip into any number of houses in close proximity when we were locked out. It was all about human interaction. And it was lovely. Only last week, when grocery shopping, I found a potato that looked like a womble, I turned to the lady next to me and said, 'look! Madame Cholet!' she ran away.