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The collected opinions of an august and aristocratic personage who, despite her body having succumbed to the ravages of time, yet retains the keen intellect, mordant wit and utter want of tact for which she was so universally lauded in her younger days. Being of a generation unequal to the mysterious demands of the computing device, Lady Bracknell relies on the good offices of her Editor for assistance with the technological aspects of her journal.

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Location: Bracknell Towers

Friday, November 18, 2005

It's the 17th of November. Again.

Lady Bracknell had cause to consult the Discworld calendar on her kitchen wall this morning in order to compare today's date with the use-by date on the bottle of milk she was considering pouring onto her bowl of cereal. She confesses that she was somewhat surprised to discover that today is the 17th. As was yesterday. Tomorrow is the 19th, but there is, apparently, no 18th of November this year.

If Lady Bracknell could persuade her editor to remove the calendar from the wall; scan the page in question; re-size the scanned image; and post it into this blog entry, her readers would be in possession of incontrovertible evidence of this duplication of dates.

But, given that the editor is insistent that, having not left the office intil 6 pm, this task might very well constitute the straw which breaks the metaphorical camel's back, Lady Bracknell's readers will just have to take her word for it.

And if the genius who is Terry Pratchett is determined that today is the 17th of November, who is Lady Bracknell to argue?

(Persons whose birthdays fall on the 18th of November may be a trifle disconcerted by this news but, as long as they are over 25, Lady Bracknell thinks it is unlikely that they will lose too much sleep over having to remain the age they were yesterday for another year. It is not, after all, as though their birthdays fall on the 29th of February. So they should, perhaps, be grateful for small mercies.)


Blogger The Goldfish said...

I find this strangely reassuring. 18th November - or should I say, the day that other sources allege to have been the 18th November - was a very bad day for me. If Terry Pratchett says it does not exist, then perhaps I can safely erase it from my memory and experience and feel much better for never having had such a day.

12:29 pm  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

My sister's birthday is on the 18th of November. If, as appears to be the case in the fantasies of the estimable Mr Pratchett, this date no longer exists, is it too much to hope for that she - and therefore many of my more memorable childhood traumas - might also have been excised from the present continuum?

1:02 am  

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