In the end, I shouldn't blame the iceberg, but I do. The bugger should have stayed where it was and saved us all the trouble. But no.
Instead, sometime during the winter of 1911 and 1912 (probably), this bloody titanic chunk of ice broke off Greenland's Jakobshavn glacier (probably) and, after smashing through the pack ice, drifted slowly and majestically into Baffin Bay, then into the North Atlantic and thus into history. On the cold, still night of April 15, 1912, this big lump of frozen, ancient water had a bit of an accident which cost, tragically, around 1500 lives and - rather less tragically I admit - went on to waste, a hundred years on, yet another precious hour of my life.
Arguably, I should have seen Julian Fellowes' Titanic (TV One, 8.30pm, Fridays) coming. After all, the centenary of the sinking of this once good ship has been creeping up on us - though perhaps not as quietly as an iceberg on a cold, still night - for the past hundred years. And I had also watched, to my eternal shame, the entire, ludicrous second season of Fellowes' Downton Abbey, plus the two-part Christmas special.
Then there is the pack ice: the plethora of Titanic-related television - though I'm not sure the word plethora quite covers the sheer magnitude - that has, this past week, been dominating the documentary channels on Sky.
I watched a little bit of James Cameron's Titanic 100, which confirmed only one thing: Cameron is an unsinkable bore.