Letters to the Editor

King Charles and Christmas Cards

To the Editor,

I write with a heavy heart and a bewildered mind, for this Christmas season has thrown me into a state of profound confusion. First, I hear the astonishing news that King Charles, in a move no one saw coming, will be delivering his annual Christmas speech not from Buckingham Palace but from a chapel. And second — most perplexingly — I seem to have received significantly fewer Christmas cards this year, a turn of events which I can only assume is somehow related.

Let us first address the royal relocation. A chapel? Is the King preparing to deliver unto us a homily, a hymn, or perhaps a riddle? Will he appear robed in gold and surrounded by incense, or will it be a simple affair with a lectern and a faintly bewildered footman holding the cue cards? And what of Buckingham Palace? Is it under renovation? Or has it been commandeered by a festive Bake Off special I am not aware of? These are questions the nation deserves answers to, though I fear they are destined to remain mysteries.

Now, onto my own plight, for it appears my letterbox has developed a stubborn case of festive indigestion. Last year, my mantelpiece groaned under the weight of cards from family, friends, and even distant acquaintances who, judging by their signatures, struggled to remember my name. This year, however, I have received a mere trickle. Has the King’s change of venue so unsettled the postal elves that my cards were left in some sorting office purgatory? Or — and this is my darker suspicion — have I been quietly struck off the nation’s Christmas card list?

Could it be, I wonder, that King Charles himself has initiated a cultural shift? A move from the ornate to the austere, from abundance to minimalism? If he is delivering his speech from a chapel, perhaps the monarchy is embracing restraint, urging us all to send fewer cards, spend less money, and focus more on spiritual reflection. If so, I wish someone had told me before I bulk-ordered 200 second-class stamps in November.

And yet, I can’t help but feel this is personal. Last year, I sent cards to at least four people named Nigel, two of whom I barely know, and received nothing in return. This year, not even my cousin Gerald, who once sent me a card with only the word Cheers! inside, has bothered. If the King’s speech can move from the grandeur of the Palace to the echo of a chapel, perhaps I should deliver next year’s Christmas greetings from my local launderette.

Yours, surrounded by blank mantelpiece space and unanswered questions,
Myrtle Thistledown** (Still waiting for Gerald’s card, or at least an explanation)