One Step Forward, Seven Steps Back

"It's like falling off a 30-storey building. For the first 20, it doesn't seem so bad.'' - an economist talking the US deficits

Am I a bad person if my actions sometimes don't go in line with my grandest intentions? If I had all of this year planned and strived to be healthier and lighter, but am cursed with the inability to leave a decent single-malt alone? Five glorious single-malts, to be exact. Ahem, plus two unidentified shots. All within an hour, at Friday's party. The bad/good news: it is the first of many year-end industry bashes to come.

Arggh, I should have known: if you are hell-bent on not spending money, stay a mile away from a shoe shop.

In Helga's weight-watcher terms, one drink is equal in fatty points to one meal. Which means, to undo the FPs I've chalked up, I'd have to starve for more than two days just to get on an even keel.

Yesterday was spent in fitness penance. After huffing and puffing lap after lap with Boy, the truth sort of marched up to me and slapped me in the face: it was one step forward, seven steps back, darling.

The funny thing is, I'm the last person I'd expect to be gormlessly adding up and subtracting calories on a beautiful Saturday morning, having spent most of my life being warned on how freakishly stick-thin I was. But now, it's like all those suppers-past are coming to get me.

One day, absolute discipline will come - when I'm sick and tired of running laps, and realise it's far less painful to just have one tiny drink, period.