How Not to Solve All One’s Problems

I have made a resolution. A post New Year, sort of a bit later in the year, February sort of resolution.

This is what happened:

I was swimming. Up and down. Down and up. And generally along.

The problem with swimming, aside from all the usual chlorine issues, struggles with possible drowning, attempting to move one’s legs so fast that no one notices that one’s forgotten to shave one’s legs and time spent tucking spare pubes back into one’s costume in order to pretend one isn’t middle-aged, is that it gives one too much time to think.

Thinking is dangerous stuff. Questions like ‘What’s happened to my life?’ ‘What is sex?’ and ‘Is it possible to get Bromide on prescription?’ knock incessantly at one’s consciousness like a minor fleet of lion-shaped door knockers on especially strong espressos.

You may think that in these circumstances I might have resolved to give up swimming, or possibly black out my goggles or my mind. You would be very wrong. For I resolved to answer some of the other questions that were arriving like a fleet of lost 134 buses in a chlorinated and badly-lit flood.

These were the other questions –
Why aren’t I sufficiently rich to buy my own Bromide?
Should Bromide be spelt with a capital B?
If I were a celeb would my sex life improve?
How should I become a celeb?
If Big Brother was an invention of the media rather than an Orwellian concept would it have ever worked?
Why did I ask that last question seeing as it didn’t work?
Why don’t I have a column in the Guardian?

Yes, it’s all stunningly obvious isn’t it? The solution to all the above questions. I should be a writer. And that’s what I resolved. But not just a writer of any old nonsense. No, a writer of specific nonsense. This very nonsense you are reading now.

I resolved to remember to write my blog. Everything else will obviously and naturally follow – I will get a column in the Guardian (if you are the person in charge of the Guardian please call asap), I will then be able to afford Bromide and a dictionary. I will be celeb, ergo a proper regime of depilation, ergo people in the swim lane will fancy me and, super-bonus, the whole of the first lot of questions will no longer need answering.

Fucking sorted. Literally too if all goes according to plan.

PS - if I forget please nag me, for obviously my future life and happiness depends upon it.