LIKE a scene from an extreme garden make-over, the well-established and much-loved Fern was replaced by an everkeen – I mean green – Holly that, it’s hoped, will take root come autumn.

Yes, it was the end of an era as the amazing shrinking woman, Fern Britton, bade a tearful farewell to her colleagues and legions of adoring This Morning fans to make way for newer, younger, Holly Willoughby.

To those of you still with jobs, this will mean nothing, but to many a tortured soul stuck at home for one reason or another, the murky depths of morning and daytime television is part of life, and the stars can become substitute work-mates, family or even friends.

And Fern was the best friend of them all.

A smiley good sport, all bubbly and giggly and always ready for a bit of juicy gossip.

Even her husband, celebrity chef Phil Vickery, was part of the act, hovering about the studio kitchen feeding her, and any guests who happened to be around at lunchtime, though it was the obvious rapport between Fern and her co-host Philip Schofield that attracted masses of viewers.

They had great chemistry, as they say in the biz, and larked about like naughty school children, bursting into raucous laughter at the slightest whiff of a double entendre.

Indeed, one of the highlights of her farewell show last Friday was a clip of them unable to deliver any lines or move on to the next feature, so doubled up were they with uncontrollable laughter after Fern hoisted her (then) considerable bosom and deadpanned to him: “You like a bit of meat inside you, don’t you, Phil?”

But on Friday, those same people were wiping away tears as stalwarts of the show paid tribute to the woman who had shared their sofa for a decade.

These included resident agony aunt Denise Robertson, who sorts out all the viewers’ problems.

Robertson blubs at the drop of a hat and was a quivering wreck early doors, lips twitching, chin wobbling like a water balloon, eyes streaming – and that was just at the meat gag!

And my favourite, Doctor Chris, resident GP with the ability to showcase ludicrous medical innovations like the Eeze Travel Pant with integral gusset cup and filter mechanism without the slightest hint of a titter. What a guy.

Barrowman, Biggins, Ball, a lot of Bs, were there to wave her off, but the sadness was inappropriate, to be honest, as it was time for her to go, and they all knew it.

When Bandgate broke last year, her days were numbered.

She didn’t lie, but she sort of let people believe the shed loads of weight she’d lost was through eating less, walking more and cycling to work, until it was revealed she’d actually had a gastric band fitted.

Which equalled two sins at once.

First, she had help to trim down, yet kept it a secret, thus allowing her ardent and many overweight fans to believe she’d done it by willpower.

Second – but much, much worse – she had simply lost weight.

When she was chubby, everyone could feel good about themselves.

Skinny people could be smug, fatties had an ally, and fretful in-betweeners could console themselves that at least they weren’t that big.

Then, she found out that Schofield, a good friend, was on a far higher salary and before you can say “I like a firm bottom... on my fruit flan” the rot had set in.

Almost instantly the laughter died and in its place was a horribly tense, uncomfortable-to-watch having-to-get-along vibe, worlds away from how things were, so she did need uprooting, to be fair.

Yet planting Holly Willoughby in her place is questionable.

The fact that she is young and glamorous could well be her downfall.

The chemistry (sorry, that word again) between her and Schofield on Dancing on Ice is one thing when it’s Saturday night and the audience is up for a bit of glitz and flirty cleavage flashing.

But come Monday morning, when the harsh reality of another week short of cash, motivation, job prospects sets in, what the viewers want is a jovial tubster in a cardi who looks like she understands.