Smithers and Teapots

<p>There are certain mornings in a man's life when he wakes with the serene confidence that nothing absolutely <i>nothing</i> can go wrong. Birds chirp merrily. The sun peeks through the curtains in a most agreeable fashion. And one's valet arrives with a tray of tea toast and the morning paper exuding calm competence.</p><p>On such mornings a man might stretch luxuriously glance at the clock and think to himself <i>Ah today will be peaceful. No geese. No engagements. No aunts.</i></p><p>For Reginald Reggie Marlow this was precisely his mistake.</p><p>It began as most catastrophes do with a letter. A letter from Aunt Agatha. No name in the Marlow family lineage strikes terror into the hearts of men quite like hers. To the uninitiated Aunt Agatha might appear to be a kindly matronly figure - the sort one might see knitting in a rocking chair or baking scones for the neighborhood. But those who have lived through her <i>suggestions</i> know better.</p>