She Who Plainly Doesn't Pay Me Enough has sent me to make her excuses. Again.
It seems that Madam has once again ensconced herself in the central command center. Doors have been bolted, computers networked, voice recognition engaged, weapons readied, the Hubble realigned, threats issued, the usual nonsense. The media has been alerted and SWAT remains on standby.
All this, to write. One must be grateful her career path did not take a turn toward something more immediate, such as platoon manuevering or rocket launching.
The final words which Madam uttered before she decamped were rather cryptic; something about Phillip the Fair, DNA resequencing, William de Nogaret, and Cheshire. Make what you will of it. I have relocated to the kitchen, where I can provide sympathy for her life partner, nourishment for her children, and concealment of the carbon steel knives.
I expect my employer will return on Monday, once creative calamity returns to mere chaos, or her supply of green tea runs out, whichever comes first.