Drowned in moonlight and strangled by her own bra. That’s what Carrie Fisher said she wanted her obituary to read.
And so it should, before it talks of her incredible legacy as a writer, producer, script doctor, humourist and campaigner raising awareness about mental health, drug abuse and female empowerment.
2016 will be remembered as the year of very public grieving. Such is the long and varied list of treasured icons who’ve thrown off their mortal coils these past 12 months, there’s someone on there for everyone to mourn; a pick and mix of sadness.
Carrie and Bowie are my heartfelt losses, although this is disingenuous to everyone else on that list. They’ve all touched my life one way or another.
There are of course all sorts of nonsense theories online about this perceived increase in celebrity deaths. Whether these conjectures have some semblance of truth or not, I don’t care.
The fact is she’s gone far too soon, and I will miss her. It’s not just her books in which she lay bare her heart and soul with such wit and bravery, her iconic films (in that galaxy far far away and those back on this planet whose scripts she penned). She’s inspired me for decades and taught me to blow a raspberry at the world when I need to.
On a more flippant level I will miss my daily attempts at trying to decipher her emoji written posts on her Twitter account, and following the adventures of Gary her beloved bulldog.
I’m thankful I managed to meet her earlier this year, if only for a few minutes, where I was knocked sideways by her grace, warmth and stunning beauty in person.
So I leave the last words to her, which I think she would appreciate. “You know what happens to old celebrities? They die or go to Vegas.”