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.

Dearest Gentle Reader, This Author finds herself positively overwhelmed this Friday, for a certain gentleman's paid performances have come back to haunt him most spectacularly, a celebrated authoress appears to have misplaced an entire book from her memory, and the hearths of the nation face a most unwelcome price upon their warmth. One simply must read on.