Smithers and Teapots

There are certain mornings in a man's life when he wakes with the serene confidence that nothing, absolutely nothing, 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.
On such mornings, a man might stretch luxuriously, glance at the clock, and think to himself, Ah, today will be peaceful. No geese. No engagements. No aunts.
For Reginald "Reggie" Marlow, this was precisely his mistake.
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 "suggestions" know better.