Pansy Cradledew is in distress. In a letter smudged by her tears, she wails:
Another of my sacred cows has been desecrated. How could Plastic do this (or, more to the point, NOT do this!) to us?
If you feel strong enough to cope, you can find out the reason for Pansy’s desolation here. I suppose there is a crumb of comfort in the Nixonian closing words “I am an artist, not a crook”.