These are strange times. Even those of us who have written that line many times in the last few years (think Brexit referendum result, Trump's election and Theresa May's serial House of Commons nightmares) really do mean it on this occasion.
It's not that we're all expecting to die, but we are all thinking about death; and there's nothing like the prospect of an encounter with the Grim Reaper to make you reflect on the life you have lived.
By now many of us will also have realised just how much time we have wasted on the trivial - probably on an industrial scale - throughout our lives.
Our lives dominated by that dreaded, crippling word, 'tomorrow.' It was always 'tomorrow' for so many things because we assumed time was on our side. We'd be around for a while longer to do it.
The family members would be around to do it with us. We lived life at a leisurely pace (usually in front of a screen, or somewhere with a glass in our hand) because we thought we would always have enough time to live it by our own timetable. My partner nicknamed me manana man. I understand her, now.
And, my goodness me, all those conversations we should have had. When my Dad died in 1977 (I was 22) I remember thinking there were so many things I'd never asked him and resolving never to let it happen with my Mum. Yet when she died in 2003 I immediately thought about all the conversations I somehow hadn't got around to having with her. There was always tomorrow.
When this crisis started I began a crisis diary: it's what a professional observer is supposed to do, isn't it? I've also written a letter to each of my children - just in case.
The odd thing is that we (and I don't just mean my family) tweet, facebook and instagram each other all the time, as well as sending the most ridiculous photographs of ourselves blocking wonderful views and buildings around the world.
Yet we rarely manage to convey anything important about ourselves, let alone the essence of our existence.
I wonder how many of you are experiencing one feeling in particular at the moment: an overwhelming desire to hug your children all the time, yet holding back because of mutual embarrassment.
It's astonishing, isn't it? Most of us would run into a burning building, or jump into the deepest waters, or throw ourselves in front of a speeding car or bullet to save our children; yet we find it 'awkward' to just hug them for the sheer heart-pumping joy of hugging them.
I'm 64 and in the danger zone when it comes to the Grim Reaper's line of vision. I'm also an older dad, who wants much more time with my children.
The most appropriate quote for me is from the film, Mr Nobody: "I'm not afraid of dying. I'm afraid I haven't been alive enough." My big regret? If I die in the next few months it will be without knowing about my birth parents.
Maybe it's because my adoption was wonderful that I never really spoke to my parents about my birth parents. And while I've written about my adoption I've always found one reason or another (the tomorrow excuse again) not to get access to my pre-orphanage files.
I always thought I would have enough time to make the decision if I wanted to. Now, maybe I won't. I could die without knowing a crucial part of my life. I exist because of a woman who gave birth to me on August 13, 1955 and I know nothing about her. The key what-happened-to-me part of my life, how I ended in an orphanage, remains a mystery.
I wonder how many of us have those what-happened-to-me questions in our lives? How many of us are sitting around a table, looking at our families and wondering if we've left it too late to find answers to those kind of questions.
Wondering if the unanswered question is about to become the final, unresolved regret of our lives? One certainty I do have: I will, if all goes well, get my files and finish my personal story. There have been too many tomorrows in my life.
