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I hate this time of year. Summer has gone but there's not yet snow on the mountain.
The awards season is over and Hollywood is saving its next batch of blockbusters for the northern summer.
Musicians have all but stopped touring because, well who wants to come here for winter?
John Mayer and Spandau Ballet will make brief appearances next week, and then there's nothing on Vector Arena's music agenda until Andre Rieu in October. Which, I'll be honest, isn't exactly a shining light on my event calendar.
We've hit the in-between zone and it's a pretty bleak time of year.
Except for one thing guaranteed to lift my spirits and make me smile again - the Comedy Festival - three weeks of mad, sometimes bad, jokes and silliness.
Some people can't abide stand up comedy. The mere mention of it sees them roll their eyes and purse their lips like disapproving school ma'ams.
But I'm a fan of funny. And while I'm the first to admit it doesn't all fly quite like it should, I even take a slightly perverse delight in bad comedy. At least it gives you something to talk about in the tea room the next day.
Plus, nothing beats the satisfied exhaustion of having laughed for an hour straight - proper eye-watering, belly laughter.
The first time I experienced it was five years ago, when I saw Danny Bhoy at SkyCity Theatre. The wee Scotsman made me cry with laughter as he told ridiculous stories about& well, who knows. I just remember it was funny.
I saw him again the following year and didn't laugh quite so hard. And again last year, where I found myself questioning why I'd ever found him funny.
Danny isn't here this year but if he was, I'd give him a miss. Not because he isn't an outstanding comedian - he is. At every one of his shows, I've witnessed other people doubled over in laughter, as I was that first year.
Laughter is the best medicine. And just like antibiotics, you develop a resistance to it. What once tickled your funny bone, may slowly begin to grate on it if you don't mix things up.
It's easy to blame comedians for their seemingly repetitive material - and sometimes it is their fault. Anyone who comes back to the same city, with the same show two years running, shouldn't be allowed in.
But the truth is, comedy is all about formulas. Every comedian has their own. And once you as an audience member have cracked that formula and know what's about to play out, it stops being funny.
So this year, do yourselves, and the performers, a favour and step outside your box - go and see someone you've never heard of, or at least never seen before. Throw a dart at the festival programme and book some tickets.
Sure, it could be a disaster, or it could be magnificent. Either way, you'll have something to talk about in the tearoom.
Read more of Joanna Hunkin's blogs
