The New Year is but a pup.
And like the insufferably yappy Lassie, barks and tugs at your dress trying to tell you something.
What is it, girl? Is Timmy in the pond again?No, Lassie (damn her) is trying to alert you to the carcasses of your hasty New Year's resolutions, slipped out betwixt cup and lip on the last day of 2009.
Thank you Lassie, I can see them.
Get in behind.
In the past, my New Year's resolution was always to give up smoking but, since by some miracle of contrariness I actually have, this year I resolved to finish my novel and embark on a rigorous diet and exercise regime.
The novel can take care of itself.
Writing a novel is like being a little bit pregnant: after a certain point it can only progress to an unavoidable conclusion where, just like human progeny, it will either be good or bad.
However, with a book, no amount of advice from Nigel Latta will help if it is just plain awful.
As far as physical fitness goes, I'm in shape.
Perhaps I should be more specific: I'm in a shape, more burlesque than arabesque.
The only time I have ever been able to stick to a diet and exercise plan, I was motivated by revenge on a leggy ex-wife - which required me to look effortlessly thin and toned.
While it is a universal truth that your body should stop where your jeans do, the sad truth is I lack focus.
Losing weight is just simple maths, says the economist smugly.
Calories in less than calories out.
That is all very well if you are six foot three and possess the kind of metabolism of a Danish racing sardine, but I am basically innumerate and just over five feet tall.
Diet Day 1: The Miso Soup Diet; a serving of miso soup has only 50 calories.
Unfortunately, miso soup is a little bland.
To make it more appetising, consider adding a drop or two of Tabasco.
If this still disappoints, perhaps try adding other items for flavour: a cup of whole corn kernels, a splash of coconut cream or some button mushrooms.
"Why don't you throw a chop in there?" asks the economist.
Day 2: Weigh self.
No change.
V. unacceptable.
Realise have begun thinking in hysterical, gasping prose of a neurotic Bridget Jones.
Next I'll sleep with my boss.
Hang on, I'm self-employed.
Day 3: Put on jogging pants.
Either the elastic has gone, or have already lost weight.
Decide it is the latter and have congratulatory hot chocolate.
To hold pants up, wear fluorescent orange shorts one size too small over the top.
Unsure of the effect.
Run past the Oval and round the back of Carisbrook.
Feel like throwing up, do chocolatey burp instead.
Tradies* with mullets and barbed-wire tattoos shout encouragement from an enormous orange truck.
Wave.
Their smiles reveal missing teeth.
Poor dental hygiene or pub brawl? Have no time to ponder.
Run past the Rugby Hotel.
Punters look out the window, confused by the bouncing.
Stop.
Change music on i-Pod; nobody can jog to reggae without looking stupid.
"Oh my God," says Tammy, the beer-swilling model.
"I saw you out running.
"Scoot, you really should see yourself."
Don't ask her just what she means by that.
Later that afternoon, the phone rings.
"Mum can't come to the phone right now," says teenage daughter, "She went for a run and now she's asleep."
I am a girl of catholic tastes.
Self-flagellation and paying for one's indulgences threefold is very Presbyterian, which, by the way, is an anagram for Britney Spears, who, according to online music service Contact Music just wants to stop biting her nails.
*Overly muscled chaps who work in the trades.
The diary
February 6: Outram Rodeo. See you there; I'll be the one wearing chaps.
February 7: Sunday Bandstand at the Dunedin Botanic Garden.
February 13: Regent Theatre open day.
February 13: Thieves Alley/market day
