Dearest Gentle Reader, this Saturday has delivered grief, absurdity, and a duchess in negotiations for a role that this Author can only describe as divinely well-timed - all before the afternoon sun has properly warmed the Cotswolds. A man pulled from the sea repaid his rescuers in a manner that left three hundred and twenty-nine fellow passengers rather inconvenienced, and the nation's students have made a financial calculation that speaks poorly of someone - though quite who, this Author leaves to your discernment.

Dearest Gentle Reader, the Sussexes are homeward bound, the Chancellor's sums do not add up, and the French have taken to slashing dinghies with knives in the name of diplomacy - today's dispatches arrive with the velocity of a runaway carriage and considerably less dignity. This Author has grave intelligence on a top-secret acting role, a brotherly rift that proximity alone cannot mend, and a national day of silence that demands we set the lorgnette aside entirely. Prepare yourself.

Dearest Gentle Reader, the Sussexes are coming home - and this is not a drill. Also returning, with rather less fanfare, is British summer, which has apparently remembered it owes us a thunderstorm or forty. If you thought today might pass quietly, This Author has a Titanic ride in Hertfordshire that begs to differ.