The first New Year’s resolution I have ever kept was not the result of hungover, guilt-ridden soul-searching but rather an impulse purchase from my local bookshop on 1 January 2018 of an attractive five-year, line-a-day diary.
My previous attempts at journalling have always ended prematurely. The diaries I tried to keep while at school were disasters. Either my diary was the most private document in the world, in which case most entries were such petty and neurotic accounts of playground disputes that they have become only more embarrassing with time. Or I wrote them in the hope they might be published in decades to come, and the entries were comically pretentious.
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