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Roisin Gorman’s Open Letter… on New Year’s resolution

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Many people want to make changes in the New Year, but resolutions are usually abandoned

Many people want to make changes in the New Year, but resolutions are usually abandoned

Many people want to make changes in the New Year, but resolutions are usually abandoned

MY New Year’s resolutions went down quicker than a nice prosecco. It’s a relief to get them out of the way. I’m full of admiration for anyone who’s currently on the wrong end of Veganuary and wondering if aquafaba is a new Swedish supergroup, but in the middle of winter, in the middle of a pandemic and a post-carb slump, my life renovations can wait until the weather warms up. Nearly half of us will have promised to make enormous alterations to our existence according to a GoCompare study from last year, and it will take seven weeks until the bloom of New Year enthusiasm disappears like a middle-aged waistline. The favourites are: exercise more, eat better, save more, travel more, save the planet and spend less time on social media. Under that kind of pressure, I wouldn’t last until lunchtime. And under the deluge of perky slogans that stalk us as a new year dawns, it’s almost your duty to ignore them. Who can read ‘New Year is the glittering light to brighten the dream-lined pathway of future’ and not reach for the snooze button and the last of the Quality Street? And ‘Don’t live the same year 75 times and call it a life’ is more alarming than inspirational. A sort of vaguely half-hearted goal is to find something the husband and I can share, although we do bond over comedy repeats and falling asleep in front of the TV. We’ve tried many things over the years. In a fit of cardiac abandon there was badminton, until I realised I’d covered several miles around the court while he stood still and ran me like a Labrador. He could have done his online shopping and had a beer and still won. There was a disastrous attempt at golf to take an interest in his interests. I’d tee off with people called Marjorie and share hilarious hole-by-hole anecdotes. My swing was a thing of beauty until its apex when it became a downward forehand smash that left my elbows numb. That was the end of golf. I never liked Marjorie anyway. There was a brief flirtation with bikes, but apparently you can forget how to ride one. I travelled 10 feet, hit a lamppost and did the travelling public a favour by never getting on a bike again. Next we moved indoors to more cerebral, but more importantly less dangerous activities. Backgammon is brilliant. Beaten every time. Monopoly went on for ever. Still beaten every time, but by the end I was praying for bankruptcy. Scrabble would be a doddle since words are my livelihood. I’ll see your ‘qi’ on a triple letter score and raise you ‘befriends’ over two triple word scores. That one still hurts. We played card games like Texas hold ’em, but when someone has to explain what a poker face is, it’s probably not a good start. There was even a brief period of cribbage, which sounds like it should be played in crinoline and a whalebone corset. It was also a personal disgrace that I couldn’t hang on to the simplest of maths formulas at school, but I could remember the ridiculously complicated format of a game clearly dreamt up by someone on crystal meth. Under pressure to come up with yet another hobby, we realised we’d just spent nearly two years locked up together, so it’s a golf weekend for him and a spa day for me. Until then, Happy New Year, everyone. Email roisin.gorman@sundayworld.com

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