I don’t know about you, but after the indulgence of the last few weeks, my auld body is crying out for a spell of normal living.

I must have put on a stone in weight. The only pieces of clothing that fit properly are my socks, every other garment is under fierce pressure from bulges and bumps.

The Mother has ordered me to get a few bigger-sized shirts in the sales, not because she wants me to look well, but she’s afraid the more strategic buttons on the shirts I’m wearing will pop and do someone an injury. Speaking of which, the fastening of my trousers is becoming more and more of a struggle and I fear permanent damage could be done to my undercarriage if I don’t invest in a more spacious pair of trousers.

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For years, I’ve poured scorn on the practice of making new year’s resolutions, but this year I’m a living example of someone who needs to take himself aside and have a talk.

I woke early on the morning of the 7 January, the day after the official end of the Christmas season. As I lay there on the bed, contemplating the looming local election year, I told myself if I’m going to go before the people, I’d want to start preparing physically as well as politically.

Before turning out of the bed, I took a few moments to do an audit of the body. With my mind’s eye, I checked out its condition from head to toe. I started with the head where I badly need a haircut, with wisps and tufts sticking out everywhere I look like a cross between Bozo and Humpty Dumpty, most certainly not a head a fella would want plastered on an election poster. The barber is the first port of call.

Then I focussed on my choppers. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth and concluded that an hour or two in the dentist’s chair would be needed before I lose a few dodgy fillings and wobbly molars.

I tried to look at my feet, but the mountain known as my belly was blocking my view. A few things need to be done urgently to bring that mass of blubber under control – I need to shove back from the table and get off my backside.

When my attention eventually moved to my feet, I realised I badly need to deal with two corns, the beginnings of an ingrown toenail and a bunion. A visit to the chiropodist is added to the list.

I have no idea how most of my internal organs work and can only surmise their condition isn’t great given the amount of food and alcohol they’ve had to process over the last few years and, particularly, the last few weeks. I’ll get the external bits looked after before I face the Doc Doherty to see what needs to be done in the engine room.

I roused myself from my musings, had a shower and came down to the kitchen to find a note from the Mother saying she was gone to Clonmel.

I made myself a cup of tea, had one slice of brown toast and went straight to Tina’s Trimmings, a new hair salon run by Tina Meehan, located above Manus’s grocery. Business was slack and she was delighted to see me. She gave me a grand trim and an earful of local gossip, before I took off to the health centre where I made an appointment to see the chiropodist. I was beginning to feel like a new man.

I dropped in to Manus’s grocery where I bought the makings of a salad along with various fat-free goodies. I was on a roll.

I phoned the dentist and made an appointment for next week and proceeded home to make myself a healthy lunch.

At home, I was just about to tuck into my salad when Cantillon arrived unannounced.

“What’s a healthy man like you doin’ with that rabbit food,” says he, “a good slab of red meat and a plate spuds never did anyone any harm.”

“I have to do somethin’ about my weight and my lifestyle, Pa,” says I, “especially facin’ into an election year.”

“It’s more important to mind your electoral base. There’s a funeral in Shronefodda you should be at. Mickeen Lonergan, Tomeen’s father, is bein’ buried today. Come on, we’ll get the end of the mass and the burial.”

I put the remains of the salad in the fridge and went off to the funeral. Afterwards, there was grub and porter in the Drippin’ Tap. I didn’t get home till after midnight, carrying in my person a gallon of porter, a half ton of breaded chicken, a ton of cocktail sausages and at least a dozen vol-au-vents.

Lord make me pure – but not yet. CL