Hardly a spotless start...

I had a lot of New Year's resolutions. You know the kind of thing, a revolting mixture of the virtuous and optimistic that, looked back on at Lent, seems equally pitiable and humorous. I was going (of course) to give up refined sugar; I was going to do more creative writing; I was going to finally put a cleanse-tone-moisturise skin-care plan into action (my GOD, I'm 27, I have WRINKLES, what if it's too late already?); I was going to drink less and be more tolerant of my boyfriend's flaws, and find a job that involved more money and less envelope-stuffing, and learn Russian and stop procrastinating and exchange TV for Radio Four... Basically, my cunning plan was to metamorphose in one glorious year into a glossy-haired, fresh-faced model of competent, modern womanhood.

Well...at least I'm writing something. Three months late, but that's procrastination for you. As for the others...well, I made up the stuff about Russian and Radio 4 (c'mon, who'm I trying to kid?). I'm still stuffing envelopes with finger-bleeding regularity, whilst Mad Mary (bad bad boss) looks on with mad-eyed malice. And I'm typing this whilst gnawing on Green & Black's Creamy Milk Chocolate and planning a night of cocktail fun. (Not going well, is it?)

Also, I broke up with Wanker Banker Boyfriend on New Year's Day, in the midst of an argument (comical in hindsight) about the wallet I'd bought him for Christmas. He lost it at some time between 1 and 4 a.m. on January 1st, which some might think careless. Initially sympathetic, I grew angry when he made it clear that he was less concerned about my thoughtful gift than his Platinum Amex (the manliest thing about him, so maybe he had a point). I raised this (obviously very diplomatically), causing him to scream, in hoarse drunkenness, that: 'most girls would give their left arms to be going out with me' and 'you'll never earn enough to be my equal'. Err.... Right. Good to know. Apologies followed swiftly, but I was with One Republic on this point and felt it was significantly too late.

Boy, do I regret spending the money on his wallet, especially because now I feel too impoverished to splash out on my planned cleanse-tone-moisturise system. And, oh boy, do I need it. Not only do I have wrinkles but now, as a result of coming off the pill and the stress of plunging into the single world again, I also have spots. Not little ones with satisfying expustulation opportunities as compensation for their uglifying evil, but large, painful swollen ones that - I SWEAR - glow in the dark and leave purply-brown scars that require concealer-skill for months afterwards. Not handy when one hopes to re-enter the dating scene looking fresh-faced and youthful.

So, to summarise my condition at the end of the first quarter of 2009. Single, spotty, wrinkled and skint. And in the midst of a recession! Joy! Let's hope that a) I am somehow turning my woe into art, and b) I am actually some kind of human phoenix and, having crashed and burned so magnificently, I will now arise from my own pimply ashes, speaking Russian, publishing novels and throwing envelopes in Mad Mary's face whilst wearing a Vera Wang wedding dress and GLOWING with dermal health. Fingers crossed. I'll let you know, anyway.