Oh the delightful month of January, where we are forced into a kind of reluctant ambitiousness; I will drink more water, and keep in touch with old friends, and I will spend less. I say start with the small things and work backwards; I will retain all four of my limbs, get in a good eight hours every night with my television, and I will spend a disproportionate amount of mirror time working on my photo face. Step it up in February, stop biting people. By March you'll have learnt to use coasters, arranged the DVDs alphabetically, and even turned off the odd light in a room you're not using! Well done you!
I've yet to achieve a resolution, yes, not a single one of the slimy buggers. And that's because we're pressured to make a whole list, a blabbering, bullet-pointed, badgering list of improvements. This year, I'm going for one, so that their pestering voices aren't competing for room, and I can focus. And that's to keep this blog going for the entire year. Even though, I know, it's basically a self-indulgent diary, which leaves Ginger Beard waiting for the day our personal life slowly seeps in and he has to go into Witness Protection.
I urge you to do the same, and something, you know, like remotely attainable. Or else we're all just a bunch of unrealistic wishful thinkers who never change much of much. And don't let the cheeky ones bludgeon their way in as the months drag on, where you think, might as well achieve world peace and feed the hungry while I'm at it. One clear, reasonable goal. Then you can have yourself a smug, victory party in December, because for a whole twelve months, you have managed to wear clean underwear. (Aimed at no one in particular. You know who you are.)
So go forth my thrill seeking, hormonal little readers, and at least for this year - sort yourself out love.
xx
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