New Year’s Resolutions. What’s all that about? Guilt? Frustration? Mid-life crisis? When I was a wee thing (actually, I’ve never been ‘wee’. I was 6ft when I was 8!) I made resolutions in my pink pony diary that went along the lines of ‘stop biting fingernails’, ‘polish my shoes every second Sunday’, ‘snog Rob Bapty after netball (Rob Bapty being a hot bod who lived down the road and looked like the lead singer of Mud). I never kept any of these resolutions. Oh, there’s a surprise! These days, most of my mates have New Year Resolutions that go like this: ‘give up wheat’, ‘grow your own radishes’ and ‘give my husband the space he needs to just be’ (be what, a twat?). Oh for God’s sake (if anyone still believes in him) we’re only here once so for fuck sake, enjoy yourself. These are my resolutions, ‘get out more’, ‘get laid’ and ‘get a fucking life’. Now that’s something I can aspire to.