The astute reader will already have deduced that while your author is of the noble classes, she holds them in a disguised contempt. The struting and preening of the courtiers of the Doge’s court is absurd. Their lives are so devoid of want that they have to invent them; and so we come to a situation where two thousand people in a room can have five thousand ailments, each man barking news of his venerial diseases and digestive issues like a maccaw trying to attract a mate.

Today’s specimen is vexed by an invitation from a colleague to tea. Upon arriving, he found his self offered - horror of horrors! - biscuits with gluten in them. Our friend had been so looking forward to the tea, you see, and had cancelled other arrangements to attend it (because heaven forfend that one of these stuffed shirts might be sitting at home, waiting for an invitation) - but not only are they intolerant to gluten, their sibling supposedly died from exposure to the stuff. In their own words, their host “should have known that I would take not having other food options available as a strike against my honour”.

Ludicrous. But good news for you, dear reader, for you are the only one who Lady Pettegola truly loves. And isn’t that tidy, because you know you love me too.

xoxo
Lady Pettegola