Resolution

New Year's Day.

Lots to worry about for the year ahead, by which I'm primarily referring to Trump and Brexit, but also the chronic pain of the Tory party and the national press. 

Anyway, that's all a bit grim so let's talk about me instead. Or, more particularly, my resolutions. There are some old favourites around playing the guitar, reading more and writing my novel (or at least blowing the dust off it). There are some things I'm going to try to continue, like leaving my phone on the hall table when I get in. But, in time honoured new year's resolutionary fashion, top of the list for me this year is tackling my weight.

Or, more precisely, my waist. If you are a chap - of any height - then your waist should not be more than 94 centimetres, measured around level with your belly button. Mine is 110. Anything over 94 increases the risk of heart attack (or disease. I'm not sure - I'm not a doctor - but neither is good, right?). And, if you read Wednesday's post, you'll know I am at a mighty size right now.

Therefore, from tomorrow, it being a Monday, I am going to stop drinking, get back on the low carbing, and continue with my exercise. On the subject of fitness, one cheery event today was measuring my resting heart rate, which was 64. This is 'good' apparently (63 would have been 'excellent').

In order to incentivise (or, more accurately, shame) myself into success, I'm going to post my weight loss at the foot of my blip each day (and the waist measurement once a week) for the 11 weeks until my fifty-first birthday. Ideally I want to lose 11 kilos: let's see how I do!