Esther McCarthy: Screw you, reinvention — my New Year's resolutions are aiming much lower

I’m just refusing to treat January like an audition for a better version of myself.

We don’t have to become new people just because the calendar flipped.

Ugh. So here we are: The first Saturday of January. I’ve pinpointed this as the exact day when the year stops pretending to be inspirational and turns up like a cranky bailiff. January doesn’t knock. January kicks the door in, like a hired goon, surveys the damage, sneers, and hands you an invoice.

Oi, fatty. You didn’t think those five gallons of Baileys and 643 toasted ham, turkey, spiced beef, and stuffing sandwiches were just going to magically disappear, did you? No refunds. It’s payment day, here’s the invoice, the goods are on your arse.