It was quite an achievement, which is maybe why resolving to join a gym, or not being tempted to go into Pret for a skinny flat white doesn’t cut it.

This year, though, I made an exception. I’ve resolved not to say or use the “B” word, you know, the one; the one that rhymes with schmexit. The word that, more than any other since the invention of Marmite, has divided the country straight down the middle (or straight across the middle, if you want to be pedantic).

I used the B word a lot in 2018.

I used it on Twitter and Facebook, I used it at home, in work, on the phone, in meetings and even on a panel at the Abta Convention.

I used it in Dorking, in London, in Germany (a lot!) and Spain. I even used it in my own wedding speech. And I’m sick of it; sick of the sound of it and tired of the division it’s caused.

So I decided I’d just stop saying it – granted, a pointless and ineffective resolution that changes nothing – but a resolution nevertheless.

It started off easy – New Year’s Day was a cinch. No one mentioned it on the telly, nor in the pub at lunchtime. Compared to quitting smoking, when I would take myself to bed mid-afternoon to avoid thumping a wall, quitting the B word was a dream… or so I thought.

It turns out this was just a holiday truce – like when they downed weapons and played football in the First World War. Apparently, when the game stopped, the artillery began again – louder and fiercer than before.

And so it was with schmexit; a short pause in hostilities at the start of the year just long enough for the travel (and furniture sale) TV ads to break onto our screens, then… boom!

Time is running out, Article 50 lives on and parliament has once again gone batty along with a small but vociferous percentage of the population. It’s like putting down the cigarettes for a few days then finding everyone blowing smoke directly into your face.

But that’s the thing with resolutions, they’re notoriously difficult. You need to put some effort in if you’re going to stick to them, so I’m digging in.

The more frantic the country becomes, the more I’m going to ignore it. No News at Ten, no talk radio, no newspapers, no visits to Wetherspoons; I’m declaring myself mute. I have nothing to say on the subject. You should join me – we could start a revolution.

Meanwhile, there’s a job to do, holidays to sell, so I’m focusing my energy on as many alternative B words as I can: Barbados, Bali, Botswana, Bolivia, Brazil, anything but Brex… sorry, schmexit!

Derek Jones is chief executive of Der Touristik UK