With all this cold weather, it's easy to curl up in front of the telly. But that doesn't mean a chill won't go down your spine.
Clicking through the channels 10 days or so ago, I came across the start of Surviving Gazza, a Channel 4 documentary charting the probably last attempts of the former footballer's family to save him from himself.
I was trapped, mesmerised by what turned out to be an uncomfortable viewing experience. It was impossible not to feel that I, and everyone else who has an extremely awkward person in their life, was glued to the screen with special inside knowledge.
For those who missed it, Gazza's former wife Sheryl and their three children invited him back into their lives after his latest trip to rehab.
High hopes swiftly plummeted as Gazza's behaviour became more erratic, until he disappeared.
Of course he didn't completely vanish, as the tabloids recorded his downwards spiral across the planet and he himself made repetitive and frustrating calls 'home'.
All recorded, fly-on-the-wall style.
Eventually, aided and abetted by a counsellor, the family flew out to Portugal to track down Gazza for a sort of last goodbye - which wasn't filmed. From now on it would be up to him to make all the moves and, if they heard nothing, so be it.
There was a stage when even I, author of this warts-and-all diary, felt 'We shouldn't be watching this.' But for those of us still holding by a tenuous thread a link into the life of such a person, still pointlessly looking for glimmers of hope, there was a moment of clarity.
Sheryl knew there were plenty of people who couldn't understand why she bothered with Gazza at all, let alone allowed him back in the family home.
"Someone's got to try, and, if not me, who else?" she said.
I know exactly what she was talking about.
This is a strong woman.
Experience, family support and the counsellor had got her to the stage where she knew she was not to blame for what had happened.
Even so, she needed to know that she had tried everything to put right what probably cannot be mended.
It's where I am with son Matt.
I'm relieved when I don't hear from him for five days or so because there's a sort of peace and no threatening calls demanding everything from toilet rolls to the obvious, hard cash.
At the same time, by Day Four I'm wondering if he's been arrested (which might even be good news) or is in a drug-induced coma, or worse, in his pit.
But, as the last little trickles of misplaced guilt disappear you finally start to refind yourself, and it feels good.