The ONLY resolution worth making

And the only one I intend to keep...

Don’t you love that clean slate feeling? When you believe that, just because the calendar has clicked over into a new year, you’ll finally become the person you’ve always yearned to be?

The best version of yourself, in other words.

However, since I’ve been old enough to make proper resolutions I have never managed to better myself. I’m just the same, or perhaps even a worse version: like Snicker bars (formerly Marathons) which I seem to remembering being packed with nuts.

Instead of getting better and better over the years, I’m now gnarly of feet, with a plummeting attention span and a nonsensical wardrobe ravaged by moths.

I can’t even manage to drink more water and how hard can that be? I never have this problem with wine. That shoots down my throat with no trouble at all. Yet I’ve been trying to address this water-avoidance issue since 1983!

‘I really should hydrate,’ I told myself, back when Paul Young was informing us that wherever he lays his hat, that’s his home.

These days I have no idea where my hat is. Or my gloves, earbuds and charging cables for a range of dead devices. But hey, I tell myself - a new year dawns! Time to charge up! Get my battery boosted to 100%!

Over the festive period our three adult kids have been here in Glasgow, and it’s all been very busy and I’ve loved every minute. Then one by one, they all returned to where they live (I can’t bring myself to refer to their current residences as their homes, despite these being their official addresses where all their stuff is. As surely THIS - i.e., where their father and I live - will forever remain Universal Home?).

Anyway, I managed not to be wet eyed weeping mother because I know how unappealing that is to the youngsters, and I’m trying to focus on the positive.

I can organise my life now and get loads done.

First up, I do the normal resolutions thing, vowing to be more active, healthy, wholesome, tidy, kinder, creative, organised and - naturally - hydrated in 2026. But that’s an awful lot of things to aspire to, isn’t it? Counting them all up, I see that I have written down 22 resolutions, divided into five sections and seven sub-sections in my posh new notebook.

If I were a house, I’d be one that requires extensive rewiring, damp proofing, repointing, redecorating, scary gas stuff sorted, de-infesting of several undesirable species and a new roof. That’s not even 22 things. It’s just seven and I still wouldn’t buy that house.

So I decide to clear the decks and focus on the main (possibly hormone-related?) issue I’m battling with right now:

LACK OF FOCUS AND TENDENCY TO FAFF ABOUT.

And here’s my prime opportunity as Jimmy is going out this evening. To a football match, to be precise. Which means I’ll be home alone for three hours.

I’m planning to plot my next novel and write at least 3000 words and clear out the terrible cupboard and de-bobble all my sweaters with my fantastic new gadget (a snip at £9.49).

The amazing de-bobbler! I don’t know why this picture’s so tiny. It deserves to be HUGE

Do I do all those things? Er, no because…

Cupboard: overwhelms me.

Book plotting: can’t do it. I can only think of what should happen as I’m writing the book, which poses a problem when my editor asks, ‘So what’s it about?’ ‘Stuff,’ I want to tell her. ‘All kinds of stuff will happen!’

De-bobbling: the device’s insistent buzzing/whining sound makes me worry that the youngsters in our building might think I’ve been doing something other than de-bobbling the minute my husband set off for the football, and be disgusted.

I check the football online. Jimmy’s team has scored. Hurrah! But also: EEK.

Mixed feelings are happening here. Of course I want his team to triumph - but a draw would mean extra time, I think. And perhaps penalties on top of that? I’m not actually sure if extra time/penalties happen at this kind of fixture but I’m hoping the lads spin things out on the pitch as I haven’t even turned on my laptop yet.

Maybe somebody might graze a knee?

Half time arrives and Jimmy’s team are two goals up. All I’ve done is obsessively check the score and open the wine and messily snack on leftover cheese and crackers.

I was barely aware of doing this - of stuffing little bits of biscuit and cheddar into my mouth like a chipmunk with its elasticated cheeks, specially designed for storing foodstuffs to take back to the burrow. But evidence suggests that this is what’s been happening the whole time Jimmy’s been out. All the cheese has gone and my bosom has been acting as a landing platform for crumbs.

I’m not looking like the best version of myself. This is not the embodiment of purposefulness and vitality that I’d been picturing. This is a woman who appears to have been flinging snacks in the vague direction of her mouth.

Second half starts. I’m not saying I want anyone to get hurt on the pitch. But I need injury time at the very least, in order to de-crumb my boob-shelf and clear up the mess I seem to have made in the kitchen and, if not write 3000 words, bash out a measly sentence on my first solo night in since December 2nd.

Finally I manage to drag two words out of my brain and type them:

BOOK IDEAS.

Beneath that, a complete blank.

Think, I tell myself. Think! There’s still time for a player not be injured badly, but to crack a toenail or something like that.

The game has ended. Jimmy’s team has won and of course I’m thrilled for him. Hurrah to Motherwell! Well done lads! Up the ’well, etc etc! But it’s too late now for me to do anything meaningful and I have frittered away my entire evening of being alone.

My default in such situations is to go onto Vinted and buy crap things for the dopamine hit. But then it dawns on me that this is the issue to address this year.

Going on Vinted after wine.

To explain: this is the kind of item I buy when wine hasn’t featured:

Brilliant basics destined to be cherished and worn endlessly.

Alternatively, slosh down the sauvignon and we’re talking ill-considered purchases such as these, all made within the past few weeks. Eg, one seemingly inoffensive red sweater with hitherto unnoticed ZIG-ZAG EDGING on polo neck!

So that’s it. That’s my one resolution for this year.

Wine and Vinted?

NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET!

Everything else can pretty much take care of itself.

A very happy 2026 to you - and huge thanks for reading and commenting on my bletherings for another year. I appreciate it so much.

And very well done Motherwell!

Love,

Fiona xx

PS In exciting book news, I have a new novel out on Feb 20. In The Woman Who Turned Her Life Around, Josie is horrified to be thrown back together with Shane, her first love and 80s bandmate. Featuring: Bananarama hair, Pontefract cakes (spoiler: they’re not even cakes) and a promise both Josie and Shane have to keep.

Fancy jumping in? You can preorder here xx