I know it's the middle of the night here and technically, the early hours of the morning when I really should be asleep but I'm wondering what stroke of literary genius I can pull which is commensurate with the enormity of what's going to be taking place the other side of the pond tomorrow. None, probably. Neither can I stun you all with my powers of political analysis or satirical wit. But I do know that it is a very important day. I also know that Mr Obama is a man of the people. A man who would surely not mind being asked a very important question.
Now, cast your mind back to Sunday when I was doing a little baking. You may or may not be wondering how it went but I'm going to tell you anyway. Flapjacks? Good. Bread and butter pudding? Excellent (in fact, sufficiently nice that we were secretly relieved when the children didn't eat their main courses up at all and therefore were not allowed any pudding - harsh? Maybe. Oh well, have to make some more then ...) Blueberry muffins? Edible but only just. I used proper blueberries and followed the recipe but they bore no resemblance to the ones I've eaten in our favourite coffee shop. They tasted like fairy cakes with random bits of fruit shoved into them. Which, I suppose, they were. British food is just so easy. Good, honest stodge, fat and sugar. I obviously haven't completely mastered the American way of doing things.
So, do you think that the new president will be able to spare a little time to tell me where I went wrong? In between sorting out two ongoing wars and a country in financial meltdown, surely he's got a moment? I await his instructions. I might be waiting a little while. In the meantime, whilst I pontificate over my puddings, I wish him luck. The Best of British.