Finding time for Downton - Telegraph For a goodly 11 months in the year, the name "Wogan" echoes eerily in the empty spaces of the media, and then, around this time every year, all hell breaks loose. Proms in the Park, literary festivals, book signings, prize-givings, photoshoots, press interviews, television appearances, invitations to address university unions, to present TV awards to my betters, concerts in Hammersmith, dinners in Park Lane, nights with the stars in Battersea, all culminating in Children in Need's big night, ending in a long lie-down in a darkened room. Where is a body supposed to find time for other important duties? Keeping abreast of Downton Abbey, for instance: making sure the cutlery is "set" in the proper manner, speculating on whether Carson shouldn't be keeping a closer eye on that sort of thing rather than getting above himself and talking back to the quality, and whether Tom (whose Irish accent and politics seem to have disappeared, even as his country moves to civil war) and Mary, two hearts broken by mutual tragedy, may yet find solace in each other. It's art imitating life. As with television, all the rough stuff goes on behind the camera, so at Downton the real dirty work is done below stairs, one evil schemer replaced by another. Strictly Come Dancing, too, requires close attention if I'm not to find myself alone with nothing to say at social gatherings. Mind you, you could make it up as you went along on the basis of previous years. There's the fat one, the comedian, the stage-school dancer, the rugby player, the faded actress, the one with too much to say for themselves, and the one prepared to drag a dancer across the floor. John Sergeant has a lot to answer for. After only one week, it's between the Wag and the Countdown gel, if certain judges would stop eyeing up the beefcake and give the ladies a chance. Then, as if my cup had not runneth over, there are my exacting duties as a grandparent. After the beloved little blighters leave, Herself and I always ask: Did we really bring up three children on our own? Without iPhones and iPads and round-the-clock kids" TV? And while you're there... is it a figment of my imagination, or was there not a "Grandparents" Day" last week? I clearly remember one on October 5 about five years ago. The reason it has stuck in my memory is that one of those "lifestyle" numpties advised that an excellent gift for Granny and Grandad would be a box of toffees. Toffees! We'd never get them out of our teeth. And what about all those dental plates, fillings and crowns acquired over a lifetime and at considerable cost? Never mind, the UK's the 13th-best country in the world to be old. Mustn't grumble. "Something for the Weekend: The Collected Columns of Sir Terry Wogan" is published by Orion on Nov 7, and available to pre-order at books.telegraph.co.uk