The last thing I remember before I fell off the Shortland Street wagon is a brain-damaged Chris Warner - months earlier he had fallen off a flying fox - leading assorted hospital staff in an off-kilter acoustic singalong to The Muttonbirds' Anchor Me.
The scene was everything I always loved about the show. It was plainly ridiculous, but at the same time strangely moving. Everyone looked so happy, so at peace, so blissfully unaware that a homemade bomb was about to go off and kill Roimata.
Once you're off the Shortland Street wagon it takes something monumental to get you back on. During my years in the wilderness the show callously killed off its best character, Sarah Potts, and gave Chris Warner's obnoxious teenage son Harry a girlfriend, before killing her off too.
But it wasn't until last year's final cliffhanger episode, with that tense and bloody siege in the hospital cafe, that I felt compelled to return to Ferndale. For the first time in a long time, everybody seemed to be talking about Shortland Street. I wanted back in.
The 90-minute Christmas cliffhanger lived up to the hype - Harper and Boyd's wedding was ruined, disgruntled gunman Gareth Hutchins marauded through the hospital, lives hung in the balance. It ended with Drew McCaskill lying in a pool of blood, and a mysterious second gunman finishing him off at point-blank range.