Louis Wise looks back on his New Year’s resolutions

Every year, hitting the winter bargains has been the start of my annual reinvention. Without fail, my signature move has been to buy something totally unrealistic and bizarre, on the basis that its reduction down to £40 will unlock a daring whole new me. A chunky jumper with a ‘keyhole neck’? Sure. A meshy olive sweater that stretched so much, after one wash, it basically became a mini-dress? Yes please! A pair of high-waisted houndstooth trousers? To be fair, it was 2004 and The Hives were a thing. These items all pile up in my wardrobe, a gallery so misshapen and weird I can’t face publicising them on eBay. Last year, though, something snapped. Last year, I bought the bag.

It was sold online as an ‘oversized tote’, which I guess was one warning. It was a collaboration between two brands, which was another — neither one willing to take the blame. When it arrived, I saw why: it was the size of those large chequered laundry bags you buy when you’re moving house. It wasn’t a tote, it was an abyss. Still, I gamely lugged it around for a day, telling myself how I’d use it. It would be the ideal bag to take on a plane whenever I travelled in business (I never travel in business). It could also be a cool weekend bag (assuming said weekend required five blankets, a foot-spa and an easel). No one looked convinced; when I checked it in at a restaurant cloakroom, the attendant looked at me with pity. It stared at me angrily that night at the bottom of my bed. The next day, I sent it back.

This time, then, no sales. No desperate rummaging in the bins for an interesting new moi. I’ve finally sussed that a better, more feasible me might just be found on the normal racks. Don’t worry, though: I’m sure that next year I’ll return to all my other resolutions; if nothing else, the sheer delusion cheers me up. Although the line I’ll always draw at is Dry Jan. For me, Dry Jan is only feasible as a drag name.