This post comes a little late, I know.
I’ve missed the annual flood of New Year think pieces and listicles, bashed out somewhere between the 1st and the 4th by put-upon junior writers and lifestyle editors nursing a week-long Bailey’s hangover, waxing lyrical about the relative merits and demerits of deciding to change our entire personalities each January, stuffed with dodgy statistics on the likelihood of sticking by our good intentions or – inevitably – failing once again to live up to our own impossibly high standards. Like much of the 9-5 crowd, I get through the first, painful day back at work by devouring these articles while mainlining coffee, allowing myself to be uplifted by the women’s magazines telling me I can change my life with a NutriBullet, and chuckling gamely along with a satirical takedown of Dry January in the Guardian.
New Year sceptics look away now: I enjoy making resolutions. There’s something about Romjul (the period between Christmas and New Year) that compels me to sit down with a new notebook and pen to scribble my impressions of the previous year and record my hopes and dreams for the coming months. I rarely resolve on a single task – to go to the gym (right), eat more greens (fine), drink less (HA). Instead, I prefer to choose a theme for the year, an overarching goal that guides my smaller, everyday decisions.