My New Year's resolution is to take more risks, think less and 'just do it'. No I'm not endorsing Nike (if I was I'd be a hell of a lot richer travelling around Australia, where a six pack of beer costs the equivalent of a week's accommodation in SE Asia!)

Basically, I've caught myself too many times standing furrow-browed over the pros and cons of various trivial conundrums, riddled with maddening indecision. In most cases my brain becomes a battle ground between what I should do and what I actually want to do. I have been known to waste minutes (if not hours) deliberating over such crucial matters as "can I be bothered to go for a run?!" Elaborate restaurant menus are a particular source of dread; trying to feign casual nonchalance in front of your dining partner as you frantically scout the complicated list of choices, searching for 'the one'. (Suddenly realising why I'm still single at 28...mmm.) The impending threat of the waiter's return and those five demanding words: "Can I Take Your Order?" are almost reason enough to stay at home. But then there's always the question of what to cook...

However this is the year of change. This rather obvious realisation that 'risk-taking' pays off occurred to me in the middle of Sydney Harbour, treading water at 2am on January 1st. Our New Year's festivities all began with an inflatable novelty hat of Sydney Harbour bridge (with enthusiastic fireworks erupting off the top, of course) purchased by my Bondi-bessie, Lucy, in a moment of street-side retail inspiration. The party took place at a harbour-side boathouse where we were lucky enough to be plied with oysters, champagne and great company, not to mention front row seats to the fireworks extravaganza. What luck! (Note to self: it always pays to know a friend of a friend...of a friend.) When the novelty hat decided to make it's bid for freedom by flying into the harbour (judging by our inebriated state I can hardly blame it) the first solution my slurred brain could summon was to jump straight in after it. So that's what I did. Thus followed my friend (the owner of the hat) and most of our boathouse party. In no time at all this half-civilised champagne affair had evolved into a rowdy teen pool party. The evening took on a faintly pondy aroma, dripping bodies with beaming grins and cuts and scrapes from the mussels and rocks beneath the water. There were competitive swimming races between couples, others clambering back onto the jetty (having their arses heaved up by the brave from behind) only to get up on land and without a thought jumping in again. The atmosphere was electric. We had crashed the most exclusive party in the city, and for free. Stood around the edge, the good-humoured 'non-jumpers' sipped their champagne sheepishly, with the self-consciousness of the accidental 'black tie'-clad guest at a fancy dress party.

I found out later that Sydney Harbour is no stranger to sharks in her waters. Looking back now I am only thankful for my complete ignorance. Thinking never did anyone much good it seems.