The Day I Met Myself

Day 27, January 27, 11am: I met myself for lunch the other day.

Or rather, I met somebody else's version of me. Of me as a schoolboy.

I had not seen Matt since the age of 13, give or take. We were at school together. He sent me an email recently and we spent a great lunch discussing ourselves. There's something to say for nostalgia after all, I've decided. It's strange how our lives have worked out.

Matt remembers me as a star pupil, to whom everybody looked up to. I remember myself as an unpopular, solitary little tyke. Matt has had a hugely successful career and is as fit as two fleas (despite the odd helath issue and creaking knee joint) and cycles around 30km a day. He has an Aston Martin. I have been singularly unsuccessful, am not as fit as a single flea and trudge about 4km a day. I have a third-hand VW.

Matt's resolution, incidentally, is to pass a Maths A level and then take some degree so fiendishly clever that I've already forgotten what it it. He'll surely let me know.

It was great, though, to see him (despite the Aston Martin. Mind you, it had a dent in it, which cheered me up a bit. Our VW, incidentally, is more dent than car). Which brings me to one of my resolutions - to contact as many people from my past as I can via email. So far, I reckon I'm back in touch with at least 40 people from school, university and former work places. It's been a revelation. I feel quite social at the moment. After 49 years of being a grumpy old sod.

Not that ever email has been full of joy. There's been bereavements, divorces and ill health to contend with. But there have also been great tales. One of my ex-girlfriends must top the bill, with her nine children. No wonder her New Year resolution is to get more sleep.

A Faller at Bechers Brook

Day 24, Saturday January 24, 11.30am - And they're tightly packed, approaching Bechers Brook for the first time, and... and... and we have our first faller! I can't quite see who it is but someone's gone down!

Oh but no, wait, she's up, she's remounted, she's up and running again.

At least, that's what Sam says she will be doing. Sam came clean on Friday. After two weeks without a single crisp passing her lips - her New Year resolution - she crashed spectacularly to earth by devouring a box of Pringles over three days. "Well, two and a half, actually," she says, sheepishly.

Sam blames her husband. She knew the Pringles were in the cupboard, left over from Christmas, and, keen to remove the temptation, asked him to take them to work with him. Her husband forgot and the rest is history.

Sam, however, tells me that she will be getting back in the saddle on Monday.

Mind you, I remain to be convinced. First, she blames someone else. Then she gives herself a 48-hour window before trying again. 48 hours could mean a lot of salt-and-vinegars and cheese-and-onions. I am not sure this bodes well. Watch this space.

Did you survive Blue Monday? Rona did...

Day 21, Wednesday January 21, 11pm - Did TRSNYRC survive Blue Monday, the most depressing day of the year?

Apparently Monday was when the bad weather, the incoming bills, the credit crunch headlines and our collective failure to keep our New Year resolutions finally hit home. Everyone, as far as I understand, returned to their former ways, the gyms cleared of people, the pubs were filled to the rafters, everyone gorged on chocolate eclairs and we all returned to normal for the rest of the year.

Only time will tell what damage the TRSNYRC suffered. The club is due for its first meeting on February 7. Hopefully, someone will turn up.

Just for the record, we have about 45 members, at the last cursory count. I will try to produce an exact figure in the weeks to come. We have a presence in India, Australia and the United States. Our resolutions vary from the staple (lose weight, drink less) to the exotic (take a degree, learn a language, a musical instrument, restore a sailing boat, put on a one-man play, produce a sketch a day) to the bizarre and not immediately comprehensible (catch a 20lb pike, use left hand and left foot more often).

My favourite so far, though, comes from Rona, my cousin Mick's wife. They visited us last week. We had not seen them for 10 years, not since they moved to Australia. They're good sorts.

Rona, a French teacher, has MS and has spent a fair part of the last two years in a wheelchair. Her resolution? To stop being apologetic, when she holds people up or gets in their way or runs over their chiahuahuas or grandchildren. Rona, of course, is not disabled and never will be. Nor is she a victim, even if it's easy for her to believe it at times, when the rest of us fuss over her or talk to Mick as if she wasn't in the room. ("Does she take sugar?" Actually, Mick has a marvellous riposte to that. "I'll ask her," he replies. Then he says to Rona: "Do you take sugar?" And she replies to Mick: "No." And then Mick looks up and says with a sweet smile: "No, she doesn't.") No, Rona isn't disabled. She just moves a bit slower than she used to. But then, don't we all? Rona has other plans for 2009 which I know she'll share with us in due course.

I bet she didn't even notice Monday was blue at all. She was too busy getting on with things. And not apologising. At the moment, indeed, I find it hard to think of someone who has less need to say sorry, about anything. And don't you hate chiahuahuas and other people's grandchildren anyway?

Too busy to blog

Day 19, Monday 19 January - Blimey, where do people find the time to blog? I have 1,086 things on today's "To Do List" - and that doesn't include this entry.

I couldn't resist commenting on Roy's follower's photo, though. For you who do not know Roy, it was taken on a good day.

And I couldn't resist mentioning that we have our first international comment. Sharmila, you're a darling. And yes, of course I can remember your New Delhi cabbage. I'm still trying, 10 years later, and have still not managed to re-create it. What am I doing wrong?

TRSNYRC member reported to police

Day 13, January 13, 11.45pm: The police officer on duty was sympathetic but unequivocal.

"No, Mr Lawrence, I'm afraid there has never been a successful prosecution of nutritional harrassment. Indeed, there is no such criminal offence."

I offered to show him the offending anonymous mobile phone texts but he remained adamant. Obscenities would be quite another matter, of course. "What about civil rather than criminal litiagation?" I suggested as I was ushered to the door.

I may still opt for a private prosecution, of course, once I've worked through the list of suspects.

The first text was the hardest to take.

"Pringles," it said.

Now, as you may know from this blog, I am meant to be losing almost two stone this year from my waistline. That, at least, is what I have foolishly resolved. And Pringles happen to be a particular weakness of mine. Clearly the text came from someone with inside knowledge.

"Sofa sofa stollen and sweets" soon followed. Then: "R u well? It looks like u are wasting away." I turned my phone after the fourth message. "Apple tart," it said. Thank goodness it did not mention warm custard. I might have cracked otherwise.

I will not rest until the miscreant has been named and shamed. I shall keep all my well-wishers posted on developements.

Gawd, I could kill for a Pringle right now.

STOP PRESS: "Deep Fried Mars Bar" landed on my phone this evening. I intend to go back to the police station tomorrow morning.

Cards, Carrots and a Glass of Water on the Table

Day 8, Thursday January 8, 11.30am - It's time to lay my cards down on the table. Well, my trump card anyway. As head sloth I feel that, with less than 51 weeks of 2009 to go, I should lead the way by going public.

Thus my main resolution for 2009 will be to... to... to...

Actually, this is rather more difficult than I thought. I'm with Big Frank on this (see comment, January 7). You think of one thing and it leads to another. It proliferates catholically. One minute you're thinking about spending more time with your family and the next you're musing over the very nature of human happiness. My nephew Towering Andrew made the point to me in a recent email that simplicity is the key to a good resolution. I find myself caught in a multi-facted, self-perpetuating chain reaction.

The initial idea seemed simple enough. My main resolution for 2009 will be to return to my 1989 weight. There you have it. Short and to the point. I was trundling my way through the odd mini-triathlon at the time and somehow got down to 11st 7lbs. I was at my fittest. I am now 13st 4lbs - well, I was yesterday (I seem to range from anything to 13st-13st 10lb) - and at my fattest.

The trouble began, however, when I gave myself time to reflect. How did I intend to achieve this weight loss? And, more unsettlingly, why bother with such a New-Year-resolution-cliche in the first place?

My method, I decided, should involve the gym (10 minutes yomp away), more walking about town, and proper eating and drinking. That led to a visit to see one of the gym trainers last week, which in turn spawned sub-resolution (i) - three 45-minute visits to the gym a week, plus two 30-minute home strecthing sessions, (ii) walk to school and back each day (2.4 miles for Seven-Year-Old-She-Devil, 4.8 miles for me) (iii) walk to the shops (0.6 miles away) (iv) buy a book on nutrition and learn what I should be eating and why.

You see what I mean about proliferation?

The book's now arrived, incidentally, leading to (v) drink water whenever I feel tempted by the sweet cupboard (vi) breakfast like a king, lunch like a queen, dinner like a pauper (vii) cut down (cut out altogether?) on alcohol, confectionery, ice cream and pastry.

And what about my motives?

I'm not really sure I can answer that. I had my mid-life crisis at 40 but I'm pretty sure that ended last year (see "Hacked Off" on Amazon - apologies about the plug). I may be turning 50 this year, grey, grizzled and grandad-ish, but I'm not much concerned about that.

I've been happily podgy for a fair while now, with apparently no great psychological need to own a one-pack, much less a six. I have no great aspiration to live until I'm 100 (with my pension, you wouldn't either). So why get off the sofa at all?

Perhaps I want to try and find out whether I'd feel better being someone else. Or rather, whether I'd get on better being who I once was.

Tony Lawrence Mark I was fit, sporty, driven, competitive - and ridiculously young, of course. At least, that's how I remember him, my rose-tinted spectacles may be playing a trick. Tony Lawrence Mark II I've already told you about - a satisfied sofa-bound snacker.

Perhaps I've just watched too many self-improvement television programmes (while, of course, cramming down the odd packet of crisps or three, washed down by two cans of lager).

It's recently occured to me that there are two diametrically-opposed industries after our money - the gym-organic-food-sports-drinks-purified-water brigade, and the snacks-booze--tobacco-be-satisfied-with-who-you-are bunch. And they seem to get more than their fair share of air time.

So perhaps that is my main resolution - to discover who's telling me the truth, those arguing that physical health and fitness and longevity equal happiness, or those that maintain the key is self-knowledge and psychological and emotional contentment.

This, surely is the nub. Will I, by getting fitter and eating well, feel so very much better, from the minute I wake to the minute I slumber, that I will gladly give up morning profiteroles and early-evening Merlot for good? People always tell me that diet and excercise are fundamental to well-being. But they often seem to be smoking or eating chocolate cake as they say it. I mean, if it's really true, why do nurses always smoke. And why are the pubs always full?

So that's my main resolution. It's not easily measurable, I suppose, but the weight loss will be. Here goes.

Heck. Too much serious thinking for one morning. Time for a raw carrot and a glass of water.

Wretched Roy stunned by injury setback

Day 7, Wednesday, January 7, 10pm: TRSNYRC has been stunned by an injury crisis to one of its key players.

Midfield general Roy has been crocked by an ankle problem and has had to put off the start of his key 2009 resolution. Nobody quite knows what that resolution involves, not even Roy's physio, but it is believed to involve some sort of physical excercise.

"I'm still up for it but this will produce a slight delay," moaned the sofa-bound playmaker.

It has not been a good start to the year for Roy. Only a few days before, he and his family were watching "Return of the Jedi". When Darth Vader is unmasked during the film's finale, revealing the mutilated remains of his face, one of his daughters piped up: "He looks like Daddy! He looks like Daddy!"

Worse still for our star striker, Roy has himself spotted the resemblance. The truth, apparently, can sometimes hurt more than a dodgy ankle.

Wanted - one 20lb pike, with (computer) chips

Day 6, January 6, 8.30pm: There have been several intriguing TRSNYRC offers over the past few days. My favourite is probably the ambition to catch a 20lb pike in 2009. For ambition, meanwhile, there's nothing to match the goal of going 12 months without alcohol. Irritatingly, both those resolutions come from the same person.

Others have opted for taking on a foreign language, a musical instrument, learning more about computers and technology, drawing and creative writing. Some have given themselves a certain leeway - learning to surf before your son sounds impressive enough, until you discover that said son is not yet six months young.

Others continue to give themselves leeway of a different sort.

"I'm still thinking about it," they say.

You get the feeling they may keep thinking for a while yet -- 51-and-a-half weeks, say.

I, meanwhile, am going cold turkey for my beloved sweets, biscuits, crisps and chocolate. And red wine, too. I'm off that now as well - or at least considering going off it - after receiving that bold 12-month abstention.

Evening is the worst time. Sweets, biscuits and crisps give you something to do while watching rubbish on TV. Without them, I'm finding I watch less rubbish TV. This should be good. But I'm starving. The man at the gym tells me to drink water whenever I feel peckish. I'm spending most of the day - and night - going to the toilet.

Don’t You Just Hate That?

Day 5, January 5, 11am - Okay, okay, so this is not exactly relevant, but I can’t help myself. We all need a rant every now again to clear the nasal passages.

So there I am this morning, walking Seven-Year-Old to school (another of my yet-to-be-published resolutions) as part of a bedraggled caravan of disgruntled first-day-back returnees, when along the rather narrow Hickmans Lane comes a 4x4. It’s going too fast as it approaches the parked cars near the traffic lights and has to break sharply. There’s one small child in the back. The driver has one hand on the wheel while talking into a mobile with the other. She’s yawning. Oh, and did I forget to mention? It was snowing this morning and there was still patches of ice on the roads and pavements.

I am a liberal, but if I could have borrowed Boot Boy’s AK-47 just then, I would have.

I Just Knew Boot Boy Would Say That...

9pm, Saturday, January 3 - In all honesty, I saw it coming. It had to happen and, on reflection, it had to come at the hand of Burgess Hill Boot Boy Jonathan. Thus it is that TRSNYRC tastes its first reverse.

“F*** off,” were Boot Boy’s exact words when I suggested today that he might like to join us. A tirade followed. I don’t remember much of what he said – I was wearing a large saucepan over my head at the time, as his two primary-school tykes bombarded me with cashew nuts and lime jelly left over from their tea – but it was something along the lines of New Year resolutions being smug, and him being happy with who he was, and how he always walked in the opposite direction to the crowd.

Boot Boy, I already knew, is not a man to meddle with. For a start, he is 8ft 6ins tall in his socks and believes hanging is too good for hoodies. And he fires from the hip. His lovely fragrant wife, a woman as far removed as Boot Girl as one could imagine, says he suffers from foot-in-mouth. She recounts a marvellous story when Boot Boy, puffing on his fag at a party, was informed by a 5ft 4ins man that he had decided to give up smoking from January 1^st. Boot Boy responded with typical subtlety.

“Afraid it might stunt your growth, were you?”

Fragrant Wife, however, has joined the cause. An artist of talent and some discernment, she has decided to produce a sketch for every remaining day of the year. What a fine resolution! Boot Boy, meanwhile, snorted, suggested it would have been more fun if he could have made up resolutions for everybody else (he's probably right on this point at least), ordered a taxi and headed off for a pub quiz.

I ended the visit in fine fashion. Having seen off the temptation of stealing one of Seven-Year-Old’s lemon sherbets this morning, I gracefully declined not one, but two offers of Jaffa Cakes from Fragrant Wife. I continue to amaze myself.

STOP PRESS: Our northern representative, Wigan Tony, has made a good point. Giving something up, he argues, is surely as worthy of praise as taking something up. Wigan Tony is a chimney of long standing. He usually smokes three cheroots at a time. “Giving up me fags is the same as taking up breathing,” he points out. A negative resolution, from his standpoint, has its positive side. I bow to the power of his logic. Negative resolutions are henceforth permitted.

Progress (of sorts)

Friday, January 2, 9.30pm: I knew this would happen. I’ve jotted down a few preliminary thoughts and already I’m staring at a resolutions list as long as my arm. Actually, as both my arms. And one leg. I have as much chance of working through my list as I have of becoming President of Guatemala. Interminable resolutions lists are the reason I gave up writing them years ago.

Mind you, I’ve made a good start. My first resolution is to contact everybody in my email contacts list within the next four weeks or delete them. So far, I’ve fired off 52 emails and got 10 replies, including one from India and two from the United States. That’s not too bad, considering how irritating I can be. I’m on my way. And feeling rather cosmopolitan, too.

My second resolution involves health and fit-for-nothingness. I’ll avoid being any more specific at this stage. Just in case I’m tempted to give up before I manage to start. Here too, though, I can announce progress of sorts. I went to my local gym today and asked for a special monthly membership rate. They said no. Still, at least I went. I had a small glass of red wine to celebrate this evening, which was perhaps less commendable. I’m currently fighting the urge to uncork the bottle again.

My third resolution involves a musical instrument but, again, I’m keeping quiet about my exact goal until I have consulted with an expert on the matter. I don’t want to get too ambitious. To date, all I play is an iPod. TB and SYOD tell me that whatever I choose must be equipped with a mute button.

There’s more, involving German irregular verbs, a few rounds of golf, my derisory annual earnings, computer technology, a web site and the state of our house. But, again, I’ll try to avoid heightened expectations by remaining suitably vague. I’m not good with heightened expectation.

TRSNYRC, meanwhile, is growing. I am already planning our first convention. Watch your inboxes.

Day One (later than planned)

January 1, 9.15pm: I have spent a very odd evening indeed with the neighbours. They invited us all back after finding their kitchen still replete with New Year left-overs. And there I sat, sipping irregularly at red wine as if it contained poison and refusing repeated offers of bread, cheese and raspberry cheese cake.

Needless to say, this is unusual behaviour. What makes it particularly odd, however, is that I still have to decide on a resolution. In attempting to keep all options open, I found myself impersonating a tee-total vegan, while being roundly derided by the rest of the table. Indeed, I have spent the first day of 2009 as the perfect human being. After weeks of over-indulgence, I’ve drunk water and eaten fruit and nuts, gone swimming with my daughter and even attempted a couple of physical jerks.

It’s been quite exhausting. I can’t go on like this.

Day One (earlier than planned)

8.36 am, January 1, 2009: I should not be up yet. Or rather, Seven-Year-Old Daughter should not be up yet. She went to sleep at 1.42am and, having turned off her light, I followed shortly after 2am. Ridiculously, she then woke up at 8.23 this morning and announced she was not tired (despite looking like a panda)/where was her breakfast/could she watch CBBCs?

On the subject of breakfast, I am treading on eggshells. I have been known to eat the first thing to come into my field of vision once in the kitchen – chocolate, SYOD’s lemon sherberts, yesterday’s left-overs – but I fancy one of my yet-to-be-set-in-stone resolutions may have something to do with my eating habits. So I plumped for glutinous porridge. Perhaps I’m making it wrong.

I’d better give my resolutions some serious thought today or I’ll have to eat more of the stuff tomorrow.

Last night, incidentally, was spent at Frank and Clare’s. They are excellent hosts. Frank’s chocolate mousse is deadly. I’ve cleaned my teeth twice this morning but I can still taste it – he’d added chilli powder this year, he said, to give it more pep.
Anyway, somewhere between the fifth and seventh bottle of wine, The Usual Suspects discussed the TRSNYRC rules. I’m not sure I can quite remember them all – these may need to be amended somewhat – but I think they ran something like this:

THE RULES (ISH):
* You can choose to make as many resolutions as you like.
* You can keep them secret (for the first two months) if you choose.
* Each resolution must be in some way measurable.
* ‘Stop doing’ resolutions – like “I will stop smoking” – are banned, however commendable. These are ‘start doing’ resolutions only.
* You can, of course, give up any time (The Boss - as in The Wife - I have a feeling, may have given up already).
* You must keep some sort of record of what you attempt/achieve.
* TRSNYRC will convene every few months to celebrate achievements or commiserate with the fallen, with an outrageously alcoholic, chocolate-moussed final meeting sometime in late December 2009.

SYOD wants to go swimming. Head Sloth wants to go back to bed and join TB.