So, Miranda's over, and leaves us in a fine tradition - Fawlty Towers, The Office - of going on just long enough and no longer, and creating a newly Hollywood-bound personality. Some fusspot critics adopted airs of frenetic postmodern sophistication towards what was, after all, a comedy show. I loved it, every bit, not least for allowing me to finally "get" - albeit only a bit - slapstick. I especially loved it for every reason the detractors resented: its retro nature, its channelling of Eric Morecambe (she even managed, along with his trademark deadpans to camera, to slap Stevie's cheeks) and its big, warm, sexy lunk of a star.

It ended rightly on a high (she married Gary, needless to say) and included bits of girly fun (meh), sharp observation (yay!) and, actually, a twitch more seriousness than has been usual. "That is not being a child," she says at one stage, grown strangely grave. "Sometime the world just needs to be... jollied." Indeed it does, and I raise my glass to Miranda Hart, producer Sarah Fraser, director Mandie Fletcher and all the other splendid women involved: 2015 deserves to be their brilliant year.