Dearest Gentle Reader, this Saturday has delivered plots against politicians, phantom infants conjured for revenge, and a party promising fifty thousand prison places it somehow never got around to building during fourteen years of uninterrupted governance. This Author's lorgnette has scarcely had a moment's rest - and the energy bill, she regrets to report, is rising by the hour.

Dearest Gentle Reader, this Sunday has furnished This Author with a researcher who believes artificial intelligence may shortly kill us all, a political party that received more money in two days than every other party managed in an entire year, and a motorist in the Principality who drove half a mile down a coastal footpath and escaped through their own boot. Whether any of these developments ought to alarm or merely amuse you is, as always, a matter This Author shall leave entirely to your superior judgement.

Dearest Gentle Reader, this Monday delivers catastrophe, comedy, and a thunderstorm in equal measure - and This Author has opinions on all three. From a dancing-lantern platform that profits from peril, to the extraordinary discovery that one may now queue for the privilege of standing atop a Welsh mountain, the day has already exceeded its allotted absurdity. And the rain, when it comes, threatens to be precisely as cooperative as everything else in this Kingdom.