At least Bridget Jones knows where her iron is. In the eight years I've been in my Palmerston North house, the iron and ironing board haven't left the wardrobe in the spare room. Photo / Supplied
OPINION:
Well, I made it! 52 years around the sun. Plus, there are 52 weeks in a year, so what does that make me? Dizzy. So dizzy, I’m releasing some extracts from my Bridget Jones-inspired 2022 diary.
January 3
Do New Year’s resolutions mean you have to keep them for 365 days? Surely allowances can be made when you hit 50. Like dropping 362 days from the year. They go fast enough anyway - surely no-one will notice.
January 21
Well, the New Year’s resolutions are well and truly behind my Netflix-watching couch. The bike has bird poo on it I can’t be bothered washing off, and Tip Top Goody Goody Gum Drops icecream is on special at the supermarket.
But all hope is not lost, as I’ve just read Bridget Jones’ Diary and am feeling superior to poor old Bridge in nearly every way. So superior that if I used her regular assessments, I could prefill many of them with zero for the entire year. Cigarettes - zero. Lotto tickets - zero. Alcohol units - zero (except for Christmas, if the boss is paying, holidays, and my birthday - but not this year).
It’s Maysie here, staging an intervention. “Mummy, yes, but you could do minutes of exercise, kilograms of sugar, and uncharitable thoughts about fellow motorists.”
Goodness Maysie, that’s a bit tough. Have you been reading my innermost thoughts?
“It’s not hard, Mummy. Actually, I forgot to add ‘hours spent stroking me’.”
Hours. Hours! Jeepers, I do have to work to keep you in Iams, you know.
February 30
Exercise five minutes - I live up steps. Kilograms of sugar - 0.005? Oh flip, I don’t know. I’m not good at maths, and having to think numbers makes me want sugar.
Uncharitable thoughts about fellow motorists - two. They were both using their phones.
April 31
Exercise 60 minutes - I went to Zumba. Plus, I only glared at one woman, who was in MY space. Kilograms of sugar - two slices of chocolate cake, one hot chocolate. You work it out, smarty-pants. Uncharitable thoughts about fellow motorists - three. They were all lane sweepers.
June 31
Gosh, the year is whizzing by and I’m getting good at this self-accountability malarkey. Plus, I’m getting much better at spending time with Maysie. It’s winter and she’s my hot water bottle, though the butt-in-mouth routine does wear thin after a while. On the plus side, it will save me thousands on an orthodontist.
November 20
Exercise five minutes - I live up steps. Kilograms of sugar - haven’t we been taken over by America? I can’t do imperial. Gosh, I can hardly spell it. Uncharitable thoughts about fellow motorists - five. Two going 60km/h down Main St; one didn’t stop for me on the Broadway Ave courtesy crossing; two didn’t use indicators correctly at the Albert/Te Awe Awe roundabout.
November 24
Gosh, that’s today. Aren’t I doing well, keeping up this nonsense for nearly 11 months?
Thoughts about Christmas? None. It’s still too soon.
Exercise - does typing count? Kilograms of sugar - see above. Uncharitable thoughts about fellow motorists - one, but it was me, so it doesn’t count. A concrete post started doing a jig and collided with my car. It certainly wasn’t MY fault, but when I went to remonstrate with the moving concrete post, I tried to trip it up and ended up breaking my ankle. Silly, silly, me. I should have used my right, which hasn’t experienced any trauma. So, exercise - zeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrroooooooo.
December 31
Christmas cards received - six. Christmas cards sent - none. Christmas gifts received - three. Christmas gifts sent - three. Aren’t I angelic? I really deserve to be on top of my non-existent Christmas tree.
It’s time to start reading Bridget Jones’ Baby, accompanied by a slightly stale mince pie.
On average, 18 people die every year in recreational craft incidents in New Zealand.