As we approach week three of 2014, the health kick is about to face its sternest test.
The positively-dubbed Fail Friday (January 24) is approaching, the day that most of us will wilt, bend and then buckle before returning to normal eating habits.
Good intentions and cupboards full of edible cardboard get kicked on to the curb as we crack open a bottle of vino and polish off a tube of Pringles before the main meal.
I’m still on board the health train at the moment, sat in the economy seats and trying hard to avoid the lure of the buffet cart.
My problem is that I’m weak. I’m an all-or-nothing sort of bloke.
A normal human is able to open a packet of Jaffa Cakes and eat two, maybe three.
Then they calmly fold the lid back down, put them in the cupboard and save the rest for another day.
But me? I’d rip the packet apart and inhale all 12.
It’s the same with crisps. A family pack is clearly and obviously produced for a brood of people. The clue’s in the name.
But I can Hoover up a big bag of Doritos and chug back the dip all by myself with consummate ease.
It barely takes my needle above empty.
The only treatment that both of my brain cells can compute is to have nothing.
The moment I start making allowances – ‘it’s Friday, I can have a doughnut’, or ‘I’ve worked hard this week, so I can have Artery Frazzler and chips’ – is the moment the wheels start coming off in a big way.
One of the greatest challenges is ‘Fat Man’s Pantry’, otherwise known as the post-Christmas cupboard in our house.
Opening the door, the arsenal of remaining festive chocolates, crisps and biscuits lights up my face with the same golden warmth a pirate would feel should he find and open a treasure chest loaded with gold.
For the time being though, spirits are high and the desire to succeed is still there.
But deep down I know the truth is that I’m just one After Eight away from capitulation.