I've come to the conclusion that I have an intense dislike of the Eccentric Old Lady character so prominent in fiction of all genres. I'm sure you've encountered the type: the spinster/widow, usually accompanied by a sister or two, alternately flighty or hard as nails, always startlingly insightful, who wields tea as a Miraculous Restorative and ends---or begins---every other sentence with the words, "my dear."

Every time I meet one, I shudder. It doesn't matter how central to the plot she is. It doesn't matter if her insights actually contain some wisdom. It doesn't even matter if I'm in the mood for tea when she starts serving it. It's all I can do not to skip through her scenes. And every moment of mincing endearments, of fragrant, steamy beverages, of creaking voices and bright, twinkling eyes makes me ill.

I realize this is a little awkward, since Kettle, of my most recent short story, is in the style of an Eccentric Old Lady. Granted, she's not corporeal, which makes serving tea rather complicated, and I think she managed to keep the "my dears" to a minimum---and I rather like her. But I can only hope that my readers are not nearly as aggravated by the Eccentric Old Lady as I seem to be.