IT’S that time of year again when we all have to pretend we’re trying to better ourselves.
En masse on December 31 we announce that we’re going to eat our five a day, stop smoking/biting our nails and generally be A Little Bit Nicer.
Then on January 1 three people across the UK get up and go for a run, while the rest of us stay in bed nursing hangovers with a chocolate orange in each hand.
I think for the latter group resolutions should be renamed ‘stupid ideas ideas concocted during a Quality Street-induced sugar coma that should obviously be abandoned immediately’.
The Fiance and I, who have the collective willpower of a teaspoon, fall into the second category. Obviously.
“Is there any point doing resolutions this year?” he asked me.
“Surely we’re just setting ourselves up for failure? Surely it would be better to miss out all the dieting misery and just jump forward to falling off the wagon? That bit’s much more fun.”
He may have a point.
I’m not sure what the success rates actually are for New Year’s resolutions (nor can I be bothered trying to find out) but I find it hard to believe anyone manages to lose 30lbs by January 10 or raise £10,000 for charity by January 2.
However, this year will be different. I can feel it.
This year - The Year of the Wedding - will be the one where I manage to look like Kate Middleton by March.
I’m going to exercise every day, eat all my greens and sip nothing but tap water, even on nights out.
I’ll be the smug, self-righteous one ordering ‘just a side salad please’ in restaurants.
Although, now I’ve typed it out loud, that doesn’t sound much fun.
Maybe I’ll start next week instead.
I mean...let’s be sensible...I may as well finish my Chocolate Orange first...