Oh, blurgh. I’ve been up writing an earnest essay for the British High Commission explaining why I’m after a U.K. visa. It reads, in part:

I will admit to a particular weakness for the culinary arts—one of the guides for my proposed trip is a Saveur magazine article of substantial length on Devon’s cream teas, while another is the entire March 2005 issue of Gourmet, in which London is heralded as the newest hotspot of gastronomica—and volunteer that one of my primary propositions is to explore new English cooking.

I hope one does not find me flippant; I do not plan to spend the next two years in unadulterated gluttony.

CC came downstairs around midnight to see how I was going, which was especially sweet because she is the kind of girl who is generally early to bed and early to rise, whereas I potter about in the wee hours of the morning, and then fall asleep with a book face-down on my head.

She read the first draft, laughing at the right parts, then corrected all the American spellings to British ones. Ten years ago I had to pinch myself to remember to spell “defence” defense. Now I will have to tie a ribbon around my finger to remember that “realize” is once again realise.

To celebrate, we skipped to the kitchen, latenight lightfoot, to see what sorts of things might be in store for us. Half past midnight saw me and CC and our visiting cousin Jojo at the round rosewood dining table, three girls and three cakes, we are that sort of lucky.

We can’t help it, we are girls who like to eat, and try as I might—well, okay, I am not really trying—I cannot be one of these Singapore noodle girls, straight up and down.