Mum's the word.

Once the festive period has passed, people viciously attack the selection box of Christmas television to which they were cruelly subjected. Yet the weeks before they plonked themselves down in front of the gogglebox, munching and slurping their way through fridge-fulls of treats, without batting so much as an eyelid.

It seems that each year the listings somehow manage to out-do the year before in the sheer volume of worthless, superfluous and in a word trashy TV that is produced. There are only so many repeats, best ofs and Christmas specials any British family can digest along with the third day’s serving of cold turkey sandwiches.

So presumably, come January, television is back on track. Well, one evening’s schedule certainly had me more than bewildered. I could not, and nor, I imagine, could the rest of the nation, decide which was more mind-boggling, the half tonne mum or the all-singing, all-dancing fake babies.

For those of you who didn’t manage to watch either of these psychologically disturbing documentaries, let me fill you in. 9pm: the largest woman ever to undergo gastric bypass surgery, weighing in at an almost humanely impossible 64 stone. That’s the weight of a large baby rhinoceros. 10pm: a collection of pseudo-mothers who push plastic dolls around in prams. Dolls with real hair. And breathing mechanisms. And made-to-order facial imperfections. I don’t see anything wrong with this. I just don’t understand it.

Now, a friend of mine who didn’t manage to have her sanity totally scrambled by this latest display of astounding social behaviour said she had heard they were both real tear-jerkers. The lady whose synthetic offspring replaced her dead son was certainly moving, albeit simultaneously troubling.

But I stand by the fact that the only thing that was genuinely “sad” about the American supermom was the fact that she single-handedly managed to ruin the lives of both her poor children. These poor kids will spend the rest of their lives – alone – having a totally erratic and unhealthy obsession with food. The thirteen year old had already been thirty pounds overweight at the age of 10.

But the poor lady was bedridden for four years following an accident, I hear you cry. Well, firstly, who had been feeding her during this time? And secondly, she was already “super morbidly obese” before the incident.

Surely, if she truly loved her kids and cared about their future, then she would have sought serious psychological help and medical intervention long ago. And been given a gastric band without the added complications of an extra twenty four stone.

What a strange world we live in. On the one hand we have women playing mums and dads with synthetic substitute babies. And on the other women blessed with children of their own turning a blind eye to the responsibilities that must go hand-in-hand with parenthood.

New Year. Same old you?

I am the kind of person who, perhaps ever so slightly compulsively, makes lists. I make lists on heart-shaped post-its, on kitchen roll, on the back of both hands. But I am also the kind of person who purposefully adds things I have already done onto the list. Purely so that I can delight in crossing them out with a red pen and a flourish. So for me, the idea of a list of New Year’s resolutions is both exciting, and ultimately, pointless.

The problem with these resolutions is that many of us set out with the best intentions in the world. But simply end up totally frustrated with and utterly disappointed in ourselves when, come the 3rd, we shamelessly gulp down a bottle of Jacob’s finest, or hurriedly scoff three dairy milks in a row, or frantically chain smoke a packet of fags, or joyously cut up our one year gym membership. Or for some “sinners,” all of the above.

So then we spend the rest of January, that little bit plumper, plagued by an irrepressible sense of guilt. Instead of which, we should be hitting the sales. This constant preoccupation with remorse and culpability doesn’t do anyone any favours.

I suggest we take a leaf out of Nigella’s sumptuous cookery book. Any time we pause as we pick up a delectably chocolately, sexually-fulfilling cream tart, we should listen to her as she leans over our shoulder, perfectly wrapped up in her pink silk dressing gown like a strawberry cream Quality Street, and whispers in her caramel-smooth voice, “oh go on, just another won’t hurt.” Hmmm.

And for those of us embarking on a gruelling path to starvation, those M&S adverts don’t help either. Nor do programmes like Supersize Me. A friend of mine is known to have watched the health-destroying, organ-consuming documentary and driven straight to the nearest golden arches.

But ultimately, resolutions are there to be broken. Just like diets. And school rules. And nails. As soon as you tell yourself “no,” your body, mind, soul and Ms Lawson immediately scream yes.

So maybe the way forward is to put no bars or barriers on anything, and then we would be less tempted to be naughty. Now I’m not talking about legalising prostitution, or class A drugs – although maybe even that’s not such a bad idea. All I am saying is that maybe we shouldn’t deprive ourselves of the little things in life that make us happy, albeit momentarily. After all, there is only ever size 16 and above left in the sales.