I know I'm supposed to want to give up smoking but I really don't want to. I like smoking. Some of my fondest memories have immediately been followed by a fag. And oddly enough, contrary to all medical advice, popular opinion and available evidence, it helps me to breathe.
Mostly in the step outside take ten minutes and BREATHE breathe way admittedly, but at least the neighbours only think I'm creeping out for a fag and not because my children have driven me to within three seconds of my own sanity. Again.
And I definitely don't want to give up drinking. As if.
Some bloke once said: "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." If he'd been a woman, she would have said: "When a woman is tired of wine, she is not just tired of life, she might as well be dead."
And having learned and honed my alcohol imbibing skills amongst some of the most prolific drinkers of provincial newsrooms across Yorkshire in the 80s and 90s, these days I almost qualify as tee-total anyway. Almost. *Opens another bottle*
But in the spirit of adventure that entering the year of my 50th birthday has (not entirely) unleashed in me, I have cobbled together a couple of resolutions that even I might have the resolve to stick to. They are:
1: Get to 50.
2. Stay there.
3. Paint ... The kitchen, a landscape, a masterpiece. Whatever.
4. Write more .... And it's no good you shouting "Please don't..." either.
5. Listen to more music
6. Read more
7. Instagram the f*ck out of everything.
All of which I can do WHILE still smoking and drinking. Hurrah!
That'll do me.
Cheers and Happy New Year to you all.