Dearest Gentle Reader, this very Sunday has delivered a prime minister who will not say whether he trusts a certain colonial president, a defence secretary who insists nobody need fear a sabre - and a party deputy whose company's donations have attracted the most unwelcome sort of scrutiny. This Author has barely had time to cool her tea before the dispatches multiplied most alarmingly.

Dearest Gentle Reader, today's dispatches bring cheaper chocolate, a hot microphone that has embarrassed the Cabinet, and a thirteen-year-old prince photographed in a suit with his hands in his pockets - which is either a sign of great composure or a very good tailor. This Author has opinions on all of it, and decorum will restrain only some of them.

Dearest Gentle Reader, this Saturday finds the Kingdom in a state of most exquisite disorder - a prime minister bids farewell with suspicious self-congratulation, a World Cup match proposes to begin at an hour only owls and publicans consider civilised, and the Tartan Army continues its peculiar mission to crown every statue in the civilised world with a traffic cone. This Author has observations on all of it, and she does not intend to keep them to herself.