I had just poured my second scotch, for it was Friday evening and the end of a short but difficult week. I brought the glass to my lips and then remembered what my New Year’s resolution was. It was of course to give up drinking alcohol for the month of January. Bugger! Ah well there is always next year. To be totally honest I have really given up making New Year resolutions ever since good old days when I used to smoke. I decided one year that the time had come to quit the dreadful weed and so as the clock struck 12 vowed in all sincerity and in public to quit. By 12.05 I was smoking again after having been offered a smoke from a rather attractive blond. So no resolutions for me. The country’s gyms are full of New Year resolutions none of which will get past the second week and the sports shops do a roaring trade in trainers and track suits most of which will be lost in the gloom and despondency and depths of wardrobes and cupboards. I poured a third scotch and enjoyed the rattle of ice against the glass as I lifted it to my lips and made a silent toast to broken resolutions.