But in the following days, as a new year and my expanding stomach loomed equally large, I had to admit to myself that it was time for a change. ‘No more!’ I declared. No more pies. No more beers. No more fooling myself that I am just big-boned — bones are not meant to wobble.
Well-rested and full of optimism, I registered for a gym membership, paid for a personal trainer, and vowed to give up drinking for the duration of January. But how could I know what disaster would strike this week?
Tragedy came on Tuesday afternoon, as I walked through Central after a particularly strenuous gym session (I had strained my wrist signing the membership form). I saw an old friend, told him about my plans, and was greeted with the most terrifying response I could imagine.
Ignoring the keen dedication of the mensch in front of him, my friend uttered the one phrase that weakens me to my very knees, that dire Bacchanalian chant that puts me under so dangerous a spell. ‘Do you fancy a pint?’ he asked, with all the cheer of a man who had not stared into the abyss of my future.
Of course, I relented. His offer was simply too much to refuse. But although I write from the familiar scenery of a local bar, I can hold my head high. I tried, dear reader. I tried.