I'm back from a week of shopping working in Las Vegas. The last of the Christmas gingerbread (sorry, Lebkuchen) is gone, I've eaten all the strawberry cremes, and in less than a month I will be expected to air my flab on the beaches of Eastern Australia. This can only mean one thing. It's going to be a long, dry month.

I won't go into details. I realise talking about your diet is on a par to talking about your cat (read: nobody cares but you). Suffice to say, as always I have overindulged and let things go even more to seed than normal, and now I have to ditch all the things that make life worth living (white wine, chocolate, bacon and egg sandwiches, tomato and mascarpone pasta) in hopes of shedding half a stone (or, by some minor miracle, one and a half stone) before I'm forced to put a bikini on.

I've decided, in lieu of making new year's resolutions, that 2008 is going to be the year that I sort myself the hell out. That sounds a little harsh, but 2007 was a bit of a hedonistic, silly year for me. You have to understand that 'hedonistic' for me is still 'ridiculously boring' to anyone else, but I have a gaping sensible streak, and I give in to it every time. By 'sort myself out', what I mean is I'm going to stop living like a student. I'm going to stop surviving on a diet that is more or less exclusively alcohol, grease and processed carbs. I'm going to stop looking in the mirror and picking out the bad stuff. I'm going to discover the cure for a double chin and I'm going to start wearing trainers every now and then to give my poor feet a rest. I'm going to read something other than chick lit and Grazia, and I'm going to get into work on time more than once a week.

I'm also going to update my blog. Maybe.