When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at my friend Patrick’s house in Constantia. His family was incredibly wealthy and social, the kind of people who hosted high-stakes dinner parties for his father’s corporate clients.
One afternoon, preparation for a particularly "fancy" evening was in full swing. while Patrick and I were busy on the trampoline, I retreated inside to use the guest loo. There, hanging prominently above a set of pristine, plush hand towels, was a massive, handwritten note:
"DON'T USE THE TOWELS ON PAIN OF DEATH!"
Clearly, Patrick’s mother had reached her breaking point with her children’s messy habits and wanted those towels to remain magazine-perfect for the arrival of the dignitaries.
The party began, the champagne flowed, and the house filled with fifty of the city’s most influential people. But, as Patrick told me the next day, his mother had committed a fatal social error: she forgot to remove the note.
For the entire night, fifty sophisticated guests entered that bathroom, read the threat, and—terrified of whatever "death" awaited them at the hands of their hostess—exited in total silence.
The dinner was a triumph and the wine was top-shelf, but by the end of the evening, those towels remained exactly as they started: fluffy, bone-dry, and arguably the most feared objects in Constantia.
