So, as I've explained to my dearest who may or may not be my nearest, this is the year in which it will happen - the goalposts have moved from big 'n' bouncy JLo, to Britney, and now to slim as a reed Jessica Alba - I will get to 8 and a half stone if it's the last thing I do.
And as popular demand dictates that I record my witticisms for posterity, so The Exercise-bike Diaries have begun...and you thought Lemony Snickett was a pessimist...
I've weighed in with Marjorie Dawes, folks let's just say it wasn't pretty - I wore a short skirt, fine denier tights and stood on tippy-toe. A rather rotund teenage boy asked me why I was there, I don't know who he was but it had the Milk Tray Man effect, it made my day but he has to understand that Milk Tray are off my menu.
To kick start this period of high-octane lifestyle enthusiasm I've been to the gym 5 times and snacked on WW Bakewell Tarts, so far so good. Leanne and I have stocked up on moisture-wicking gym kit, aerodynamic water bottles, wrist weights and olympic swimsuits with matching caps and although we look like a pair of over-keen new year's converts I'm determined to drill the pair of us.
I'll let you know when we run on the roadside with a haversack filled with bricks...
There's not been any real reason for this turning point, to be honest I'm in a very similar position to where I was last year:
Spring 04 - nursing broken heart apres split with budding narcissist after slumming it in South Woodford, hot sex in Tenerife for treats.
Spring 05 - nursing broken heart apres hot sex (I have to say that, he could be reading) with the king of narcissists in New York, shopping spree for treats.
So for starters, the only puffing and panting I'll be doing for the foreseeable future is of the treadmill kind, it works up equally as much sweat, but doesn't cause nearly as much trouble!
To kill time in between counting Points (TM) and pumping iron, I've taken to perusing that internet service known as Dial-A-Freak, sorry, JDate.
I feel a little target practice would do me good, except there is a disticnt lack of suitable targets.
Date 1) The Porn Baron
So the opening drinks had gone well, I wasn't sold, but then again didn't want to write him off on first impressions, so on date 2 we went for dinner and it became disturbingly apparent that he is worryingly short, shorter than Tenenbaum, possibly about the same height as me.
From my last experience I have taken away the knowledge that tall men are er, better equipped for certain life skills, so I resolved never to date anyone under at least 5' 9 and El Porno was coming in way under radar.
He basically knew nothing about anything, had no interests other than shopping - let me point out that while that was initially great, a boy who's so slight of frame that he has to have his blazers made bespoke ain't good. He was neither educated nor sophisticated, not travelled or well read, I don't think I even laughed once the whole evening. So when he dropped me home, Iwas not feeling remotely inclined to put out - and let me make it clear it wasn't through tactical play, there was just not one sexually charged proton in the house.
Readers you must understand, for me to blow out a man whose car trunk is filled with porn and silent vibrators, he really really had all the charm of a cardboard cutout.
Date 2)Mr. Greeting Cards
This chap started talking to me on jdate, aged 31 which is about 4 years outside my desired bracket, but I thought, be nice, and chatted back.
We spoke for quite a while, and he told me he worked with family, they run a greeting card company. Very nice, i thought, and provisionally arranged a drink for sunday night.
So the conversation carried on, and on day 2 he told me his name was Kishon.
Yes, that's Kishon.
I don't know the origins for such a word, or what would posses a person to hold a baby in their arms and think 'I now name this child Kishon'. Or as Toby so nicely named him, kishon the tuchus.
He then tells me he just bought a new car from a lease company, to fit stock in - and that he got it for a discounted price.
I'm thinking, sexy, a thrifty jew - mental note to self: on date, order tap water, don't ask for dessert and don't have anything with avocado, liver, veal, swordfish or anything else that costs over a fiver.
He then asks me what other jobs I've had, besides import - I explain I worked in casting, but went pretty much straight into this. I foolishly ask the same question, and after a bit of tiptoing around the subject, Kishon tells me that to raise extra cashflow, he's a manager at Pizza Hut, and works there twice a week.
I don't need to tell you the rest...
Date 2 and a half) The Best Man
Well, it wasn't technically a date, but at the start of the evening I'd have considered putting out. We went to see The Aviator which had its moments of high-brow.
So during the bits when I wasn't giggling, I played with my hair a la Mike Skinner, and moved about to show off my now-pneumatic chest.
I know we're friends and all that claptrap but I thought I'd give it a try - however during the evening several awful things happened:
He burped in the movie
He coughed continually as he's giving up smoking, and then spat phlegm out of the car window on the way home
He didn't know what a dermatologist was.
So, we then move on to project 4 - The Liar
Found in his natural habitat this young fellow attracted me with this fantabulous head shot, and claimed to be a Lawyer who models part-time. The fact that he's working on a £300 million corporate buyout didn't come into question.
Of course, I didn't buy one word of it. For the first hour I must have been incredibly rude, I was utterly convinced it was someone having me on - you just don't get Jews called Dylan.
We chat, and I demand a photo with no soft focus or wind machine enhancement.
What I get is a shot of 4 Jews in wedding attire, looking as generic as everyone else - a plump boiled baby.
To redeem himself from this hot water situation, he says all the right things on cue - that we'll go for dinner in The Ivy when he's in London in a few weeks, and that he owns 30 pairs of trainers.
Well, at that, this worm turned. The man knows his stuff, I'm sure there are more than a few coloured pairs of Pumas in there.
Just when it took an upturn, just the right sprinkling of innuendo, the offer of a snapshot up his kilt that sort of thing, he gives me his work email.
Dylan my arse - his name's Paul.
So now we have on our hands, a well dressed man, who's a terrible liar - I express interest in the movie, The Double Life of Paul Ockrim.
Now I've been down this double life, compulsive liar road before, and wasted valuable jogging time mooning over geographically unsuitable troublemakers, so readers help me out, what do I do?
I mean, all indications point to the fact that I could order Cristal, a punnet of avocados and whatever the hell else I fancy...
On the bright side, he's Glaswegian, so I'd get all the freedom of long-distance, every time we meet would be an absolute dirty weekend experience, and I wouldn't have to come home from work and cook for him!
Yes, I think I will continue to Date 4, but delay it for a fortnight so I've given a 7lb weight loss my best shot. Just in case.