O, Wax Indignant!

KWK writes:

Gin and Gentility:

My dear friend and next door neighbour knows I love candles, but am desperately allergic to most scents. For some reason, she gives me one of the offending scents for every occasion, which means I’ve accumulated quite a collection of sickening-smelling wax in a box under my sink over the years. No matter how many times I try to subtly steer her in the direction of something inoffensive - say, vanilla - she continues to spend copious amounts of money on the candles that affect me worst.

Do I find a way to politely refuse? Do I continue to re-gift every candle from birthdays, Christmases, St, Patrick’s Day, Flag Day and so on? Or should I accept that my sweet neighbour secretly hates me and is trying to poison me via toxic wax?

Being killed by kindness,
KWK

My dear K:

It would seem that your neighbour suffers from a disease called Oblivion. It is a heinous infection, and one which is unlikely to be cured, even by repeat visits to the most skilled medical practitioners in our midst. To advise one’s friends that one is indeed violently allergic to scents ought to suffice—indeed, with most sensible people, such an admonition against scented products would immediately call forth the most heartfelt repentance and floods of bitter tears. Not so with your neighbour who, it would seem, is desperate to inflict her tastes upon you, regardless of your own feelings in the matter—or your swollen mucous membranes.

What is called for is something I like to call “Pointed Tact.” This is a social tactic which has served me very well in the past, and, when correctly implemented, can inflict the most damning wounds with the greatest of ease. Its tenets are simple: say precisely what you mean, but say it in such a way that your true feelings are abundantly evident. I myself like to use it when I or my staff are graced with yet another visit from some representative of the Vichy government—an almost-daily occurance here in Casablanca, as you can imagine—or when my idiot aide-de-camp manages to spill something on my uniforms.

Here is what I want you to do: the very next time your ‘friendly’ (I use the term advisedly) neighbour presents you with yet another stinking cylinder of wax, accept it graciously. Smile broadly and croon, “My! Another scented candle! How…thoughtful.” You see, Madam, the efficacy of this technique lies in its delivery; by placing the emphasis on the word ‘another’ your neighbour is immediately advised, albeit very discreetly, about the growing collection of stinking wax carcasses now rotting beneath your sink. The slight but unmistakable pause before the word ‘thoughtful’ gives you a thespian’s edge. Only the dullest and most unresponsive audience could fail to understand precisely what you mean! And if your neighbour proves still recalcitrant, your can bring out the final weapon in your arsenal: handle the odiferous lump as though it were indeed a stinking clot of foul matter. Do this in her presence. Directly you are shot of it, scrub your hands at once—and vigorously, Madam! Now is no time for a lack of courage!—on your clothing. Excuse yourself immediately to wash your hands, preferably in her presence, and while scrubbing, make repeated exclamations of disgust.

I guarantee, you will receive no such plug of foetid tallow ever again. Yes, your neighbour may find herself somewhat in distress by your admittedly dramatic demonstration of disgust, but needs must, Madam. To preserve yourself I fear that you must wax indignant…

Louis