This traditionally the time of year when I write myself a to-do list of utterly unachievable tasks e.g.

a)    Learn to like milk

b)   Remember to take vitamins

c)    Wear sensible shoes

d)   And pants

e)    Train menace to use punctuation

f)     And stop weeing in inappropriate places

g)    Do not roll eyes whenever Mrs Nadin snr claims you will die certain slow horrible death if you do not do all of the above.

As with most lists, I last two days until I have broken one, if not all of the resolutions (by eschewing a pint of semi-skimmed whilst cleaning up wee spillage in a pair of three inch Mary Janes).

Yet somehow, 2011 still worked out pretty darn good. I met a whole heap of new, interesting, and largely tattooed friends. I learned to ice skate. I wrote books that got recognized by the literary greats Roald Dahl and Richard Madeley. I persuaded the menace that foxes were, actually, real. And, having sworn to stay away from men, I finally met the one of my dreams (yeah, so I dream about hairy giants from Wigan. Nothing wrong with that).

There were downsides too. I finally had to capitulate to wiser medical minds (and Mrs Nadin snr) and give up the heels. The death of Barry the moronic hamster devastated the household. And I had to accept that football was, once again, the dominant calendar event, around which all other engagements had to be arranged.

But mostly I’ve worked out that life happens, however hard you resolve otherwise. You just have to sit back and enjoy the ride, wherever it takes you. As long as you follow some simple rules. As the legendary Woody Guthrie says: Shine shoes. Change socks. Don’t be lonesome.

So here’s to a another rollercoaster in 2012. With clean underwear and sheets, and a glad heart.

Woody Guthrie's 1942 New Year's Resolutions.