Well here we are and it’s 2014. And of course with another new year comes another list of new year’s resolutions. I was reading the paper today and — say this with a heavy Boston accent — as per (that’s “pah”) usual, persons trying to be funny have written all about new year’s resolutions and their utility/futility depending on his or her particular point of view.

I haven’t made any. Unless you count the typical half-hearted pledge I always make to myself to try and get my shit together (for real) this year. After my somewhat less than absolutely fantastic 2012 and my slightly better but still not all wonderful 2013, however, I see no reason to write a laundry list of resolutions. Holy crap — you know what? It just occurred to me that the second anniversary of my diagnosis just came and went and I didn’t think about it at all. Hot damn. Anyhow, as I was saying, I don’t need a new year to resolve to do shit. I just get it done when I set my mind to it if it means that much to me.

But there is something cleansing about that flip of the calendar that makes me want to purge, cleanse and sanitize. Except for my own person, I guess, since I am sitting here at 18:18 GMT still unshowered in my pyjamas while my children, also still in pyjamas (and not the freshest), sit at the dining table addressing notes. We are jet lagged and have failed to avail ourselves of fresh air and exercise, two things which are sure-fire ways to get over jet lag quicker, or so the experts say. Well oops. See, I’m failing already to be all that I can be.

So rather than draft a list of my inadequacies or come up with a brilliant haiku summarising my goals for the year, I thought I would find new uses for January and all it has to offer.

For starters, my husband announced in December that he was going to have a dry January, meaning that he would not drink any alcoholic beverages for the entire month. I heckled him and rolled my eyes and pronounced such to be stupid. Until the night I had a few drinks and vowed, in front of other people, to do it with him myself. Oops again. So around 22:15 on 31 December 2013, I sipped my last bit of Cabernet and ushered in the New Year, without even raising a glass at midnight. Might as well get started, I figured. The next day at the BA airport lounge I looked longingly at the wine offered at the drinks bar and thought: “Why the hell am I doing this? I don’t have to do this. I said I would but really what’s to stop me from just changing my mind? And not going through with it.” But I pushed these thoughts aside and got on the plane, having consumed only sparkling water with my chicken curry. The English are into curry and things that are like curry — no doubt due to all their colonising of India and other places where curries and such abound. But I digress.

Anyhow I got on the plane and sat down and waited for them to pass the pre-take-off champagne, which I have never, and I mean never refused. Even if I have a raging head cold and it is 10:00am I take the champagne. Because, like, it’s champagne and shit. You know? But I asked for a glass of water and told the flight attendant I was doing the Dryathlon. He seemed slightly irritated and furrowed his brow in a sort of “who farted” look coupled with a good dose of “you dumb asshole why do I need to know this or indeed care?” However, he did remember not to offer me any wine or booze for the rest of the flight, so that was a bonus.

After I turned down the champagne and while we were still sitting on the runway, waiting for some dumbass passenger whose luggage was aboard but whose person had gone MIA (not cool to do that – especially post 9-11), I pondered again the stupidity of agreeing to this self-inflicted deprivation of something that I enjoy and for no good reason. And that’s when it dawned on me — I needed a reason. It would be one thing if I had a drinking problem or needed to lose a lot of weight or something but I do not, so there really wasn’t that much in it for me, except pain and agony and the knowledge that my friends wouldn’t invite me to any dinner parties for a month once they found out. So while I casually noodled about whether there was a bomb on the abandoned suitcase aboard our 777 and why I had committed myself to a month of no fun at all, I googled “Dryathlon” and came up with a goal. And instantly I felt better.

We will raise money for Cancer Research UK, which is a charitable organisation (I won’t tell you what the charity does because if the name doesn’t spell it out for you then you have serious problems). So using my iPhone, moments before the technology ban, I formed a team — with Bill as team leader — called the boozeless billionaires. Yeah, I know, it doesn’t really make sense, but my nine-year-old came up with it and it has nice alliteration so we went with it. I just wish the second part of it were true. Anyhow you can donate to a good cause and watch us pretend to enjoy nonalcoholic beer and become fat gorging ourselves on chocolate as a substitute for what we really want. No pressure at all but here is the link in case you are interested: http://www.justgiving.com/teams/the-boozeless-billionaires

I’ve already had one friend offer to send money if we agree to stop doing it. But at this point I’ve gone too far and I’m sticking to it. We are four days in and after my initial doubts and shakiness on January 1, I am going long and strong. People do a lot of things to raise money for charity, generally involving racing either on foot or by bike. That requires training and a lot of self-discipline. It is undoubtedly different from what we are doing, which although it involves self-discipline does not involve a physical challenge other than stopping that motion of tipping that glass back and repouring. But what the hell, it’s for a good cause and it has led to some interesting benefits.

It will give our livers a rest, which is good. Might it make us look younger? I don’t know. Time will tell (plus I plan to do one of those before and after deals where I deliberately look crap in the first pic by being all hunched over and pale and wrinkly plus bad hair and then slathering myself with self-tanner and make-up and use a soft lens on the after pic so people will ooh and aah at the results and ask what face cream I’ve been using). But more interesting and perhaps less obvious, it makes you think about when you want a drink and what happens when you just don’t have it. And all the things that are associated with it, such as going out, socializing, unwinding, partying, overeating, dealing with stress, doing what’s easy, giving in, I could go on… I mean there are a lot of times when the natural thing has become to have a glass of wine or a beer, and then another. And another. And I do enjoy it — I really do. But this month I will enjoy just not doing it. And exploring how not doing it makes me feel.

For all you naysayers out there who think it is lame — I hear you. I remember last year one of our friends did it (not even for charity but just because) and I thought that is sooooo stuuupid. But why is it stupid? Especially given that I am prone to wild dancing, weirdness, fits of song and being obnoxious, catty and overly critical of myself and others (behind their backs, usually, but not always) even without having a single drink. Oh did I mention, foul language, odd dressing and general irreverence? Yes well I will still be me. I will just see everything more clearly as I sip my fizzy water and lime (out of a stemmed wine glass, so I can feel glamorous). I may have to draw the line, however, at the mocktail. Why even pretend, really? Because perhaps the only thing lamer than not drinking is drinking a fruit cocktail made with tropical juice at a party and pretending to have a good time.

In case you are wondering about the photo of my husband pouring beer down the sink, no we did not go through the house and pour out all of our alcoholic beverages. That would be a time-consuming, idiotic, expensive proposition. No, instead he cleaned out the basement and discovered some expired beers, and he is a purist and refuses to drink other-than-superfresh brew. He also needs more empty bottles because tomorrow he plans to bottle a batch of beer he brewed a couple of months ago. Hey, the ban is on drinking not brewing or bottling. Out with the old in with the new — goes for years and beers. And it is for one month only. Four days down and 27 to go. If I falter I can always remind myself: sure beats chemo.