In which Lady Bracknell is not calm
Amongst the many minor irritations which must be borne in life, one of the most irksome is the fact that, as soon as she has trimmed her fingernails (it is the eczema season, after all, and therefore rather unwise to provide oneself with weapons with which to tear one's skin), Lady Bracknell is immediately faced with a multitude of small tasks for which she is suddenly wholly unsuited. Knots must be unpicked; packing tape must be removed from the stout boxes in which the seasonal gifts she has ordered for her family and friends have been delivered; foodstuffs are all hermetically sealed under plastic film, the "tear here" tag of which is notably resistant to the grip obtainable using only the fingertips.
Is it that such tasks pass un-noted the rest of the time, or does life conspire to save them up for the express purpose of aggravating elderly aristocrats when they have already been rendered crotchety by the advent of television commercials assuring them that, if they order now, they can have their new carpet laid in time for Christmas?
Given that Lady Bracknell has yet to be persuaded of the need to purchase a new sofa in time for Christmas, it is unlikely that she will be swayed by any arguments the marketing men can put forward to the effect that her carpets are shamefully un-Christmassy. What next? A new patio heater in time for Christmas? New pillow cases? Is Lady Bracknell truly alone in her failure to find any logical connection between the celebration of the birth of Jesus and the decrepitude (or otherwise) of her home furnishings?
As so often happens at this time of year, Lady Bracknell's original question to her readers has degenerated into a complaint about modern day Christmas. As there are yet two weeks available to her ladyship to vent her spleen on this particular issue, it would perhaps be wise for her to close at this juncture, and to seek out some edifying task for which fingernails are not an absolute pre-requisite.