Dearest Gentle Reader, This Author's Monday tea sits untouched, for today brings word of telephone diplomacies between two most powerful lords over a waterway that may yet determine the price of your supper, a desperate plea from a prison cell in a war zone, and the revelation that a simple family luncheon now costs more than a gentleman's wager at cards. All this, and a quarrel about moles that has set the nation quite ablaze.

Dearest Gentle Reader, This Author can scarcely credit that a Sunday should bring word of Persian missiles, the scandalous inflation of cucumbers, and fabricated ladies of the digital salons all in one breath. Someone, somewhere, has a great deal of explaining to do, and This Author intends to savour every morsel.

Dearest Gentle Reader, This Author finds herself besieged on all sides this day by whispers of missiles gone astray, a vanished Duchess whom all of America wishes to question under oath, and a governing party that cannot seem to agree upon a single thing whilst the world burns around it. Add to this celestial fireworks and a contagion in Kent, and one begins to wonder whether Saturday itself has taken leave of its senses.