3 CM more

This year, as I do most dark Decembers, I swore.

I swore, that Christmas wouldn’t be about 3 centimeters more.

That the cookies in the lounge, the chocolates with coffees.

The custard, gravy, wine, and all the granny gifted toffees.

Would be no more.

I swore.

I swore on my thighs and the ripples on my belly.

I swore on the picture of me back when I wasn’t as heavy.

I swore on the running shoes I’d tried to use.

I swore to forfeit, if I failed, on our summer cruse.

I swore with good intentions.

I swore with humble pretentions.

And failed.

I failed to resist that mid-morning toffee.

I said yes to the brandy in the coffee.

I poured the last dribbles out of the bottles of wine.

I suggested champagne cocktails. Yes, that idea was mine!

I had a fair share of the Christmas cake.

Had my earliest pint ever, 11am – for goodness sake!