I scratched down seven new year's resolutions this year.

(I write them down in the hope that this will commit me to doing them.)

(It doesn't usually work.)

One of these was, in truth, a bit of a metaphor.

I intended to bake more cakes.

On the grounds that baking a cake calls for you to stay in the same place for more than five minutes at a time.

January has slipped by. As January is inconsiderately wont to do.

And I have baked precisely no cakes. Eaten plenty. Even been given one. (Thanks, S.) But baked none.

Until today.

Panicked by the looming end of the month (the shame of being unresolute so quickly) - and tempted by a tea party invite - I decided that this was the morning to spring into action.

So now my flat is flooded with the smell of spice.

I have three spicey loaves fastened - probably irreparably - into their tins atop the stove.

I have flour all over the floor.

I feel all very Nigella.

And now I can go play Little Red Riding Hood.

This, of all the seven resolutions, might at least be a success.