“What resolutions are you making for the New Year?”

I’M NOT a goal-setter.

The evidence for this is unassailable: to date I’ve only ever been able to think in terms of a) the day’s resolutions, as in “I’d like to walk the dogs after lunch” or b) the week’s resolutions, as in “next weekend I’m going to take it easy and you’re all going to empty the car.”

And yet every year after Christmas, my husband assails this evidence by asking me “what resolutions are you making for the New Year?” The tone of this enquiry is pitched somewhere between faint hope (that I like setting goals deep down) and denial (of unassailable evidence that proves I don’t).

“Why don’t you just make yours?” I say.

“I think we should think about the things we really want to do in life,” he says, “before it gets too late.”

“That’s more of a bucket list,” I say, “I don’t want to think about what to put on my bucket list. I’m 46, not dying.”

“Goals then,” he says, “think of goals.”

I need time to fabricate goals. “You go,” I say.

“I’m going to start training for the iron man triathlon and I’m definitely going to do a parachute jump. I’d also like to do the Mizen to Malin cycle and I want to go to the Euros in Poland,” he says.

“Oh,” I say. I’m disconcerted by the speed of his delivery.

“Now you,” he says.

I say I can’t think of anything right now when it’s late and I’m trying to unglue our daughter from Facebook. “Come on,” he encourages.

“I don’t need to resolve to do something I want to do. I’ll just do it,” I say, “nearer the time.”

“Like what?” he says, at which point I think Florence might wrap things up.

“Florence,” I say, “I want to go to Florence.’ He says I always say Florence.

“You must have other things,” he says, “what about self-improving things?”

I explain that nothing springs to mind immediately, since the obvious ones such as quitting smoking (done it), dieting (same weight for years) and laying off the booze (my feeble liver sees to that anyway) don’t apply.

My daughter looks up from Facebook. “I know what resolutions you should make for the New Year,” she says. She’s looking in my direction.

“It’s late,” I say. “No, seriously,” she says.

“You need to eat a proper breakfast,” she says, “not just coffee. I’m sure that’s why you’re ratty in the morning.”

“And I was thinking that you should start putting on weight now because when you get older, you don’t want to be one of those skinny grannies. They’re freaky looking. Kind of witchy.”

“And you shouldn’t get stressed about work,” she says, “you never used to get stressed about painting but you do with writing.”

“Writing isn’t like doing a painting for someone,” I say, “sometimes, when I’ve been writing all day and you come home from school, it feels like I’ve been chewing my own foot.”

“Gross description,” she says.

“And you need to do more exercise,” she says.

That’s four goals she’s given me for 2012.

“I do exercise,” I say.

“Well, you say you walk the dogs but I never see you,” she says.

“That’s because I walk them when you’re in school.”

“And you should throw your pink dressing gown away because it’s really had its day, like.

“And you should wear more colour,” she says, “not just black. You look good in colour.”

Six goals for 2012.

“I’m going to say this,” she says “and then I’m going to bed because I don’t want to discuss it.”

My husband looks up.

“You should get a lock on your bedroom door,” she says.

My husband scrambles up from his chair to put the dogs out.

“Look,” I mumble quickly, “it was just that once… thought you were asleep... barged in looking for your phone… won’t happen again I promise.”

She says something as she leaves the room.

“What did she just say?” he hisses. I tell him. “She said ‘I should think not, I mean you’ve had your family for god’s sake, surely you don’t need to be doing that anymore’.”

Which makes it seven goals in all.