Once More With Footnotes

caverns, and manipulating the destiny of millions on a twenty-four-hour basis, possibly while fondling a fluffy white cat. Since this would mean missing bridge club on Wednesdays, and in any case cats gave Mrs. Pewter hay fever, she o p ted instead for a decoction of willow bark for whenever the voices in her head got too bad.
     
    -
     
    Planets
     
                  An ailment peculiar to people working in conditions of stress in high magical environments. This can sometimes cause a breakdown in the inhibitory cir cuits which prevent every individual's belief that they are the centre of the universe from being broadcast to the universe at large. The usual result is that small imaginary planets will appeal and begin to orbit their head. Strictly speaking the whole u n iverse will eventually begin to orbit them as well, but the effect is so slight that it is in practice restricted to small items within a few feet.
     
                  History records that the wizard Roraty Williams suffered from chronic planets for several years, and one o f them developed quite an advanced civilisation which sent a small fleet of flying ships to colonise his head. A helpful and caring man, for some years he never wore a hat.
     
    -
     
    Scroopism
     
                  Many people know about Thomas Bowdler, who published a work of Shak espeare with all the offensive bits cut out. Few remember Male Infant Scroop, who had an overwhelming urge to add rude bits to books and songs not originally intended to contain any. This began at quite a young age, with the scrawling of words like "nikke r s" and "bum" in the margins of his schoolbooks (his problem was exacerbated by a lifelong inability to spell) but, after he received a large legacy at the age of 21, he was able to reprint entire books that had been "scrooped". These were substituted for t he publisher's copies, which they otherwise resembled in every respect, when bookshop staff were not looking.
     
                  For several months the only result was a noticeable upsurge in the sales of several titles. Things came to a head, however, when a Miss Epetheme Slaybell's small, privately published volume entitled Thoughts From a Country Garden won several highly contested litetary awards, and was praised by a judge for its "bold and controversial stance on the subject of primroses".
     
                  Mr. Scroop died age 84, an d is buried in Small Gods Cemetery, Ankh-Morpork. His tombstone, including the inscription, may be inspected by private arrangement with the head gravedigger, since in deference to public opinion it is kept wrapped in brown paper.
     
    -
     
    Signitus
     
                  A minor bu t chronic ailment, which causes the sufferer to groan and sometimes run away at the sight of anyone holding more than three books. Brandy has been found to relieve the symptoms, possibly with the addition of brandy.
     
    -
     
    Bursaritis (chronic Con-tinence)
     
                  T he illusion that you have brought hundreds of people a long way in order to celebrate something that doesn't really exist. Symptoms are manic-depression, a fixed waxy smile, and a tendency, unless physically prevented from doing so, to sell t-shirts at pe o ple. Those afflicted may shout things like "Only 1,978 mugs to sell before we break even!" WARNING: sufferers may spontaneously combust if woken suddenly from their trance-like state, and it is best to humour them until they wake up of their own accord. B e kind to these people. It is not their fault.
     
    -
     
    These notes were supplied by: Dr. Peristyle Slack, Ankh-Morpork Guild of Barber-Surgeons — "Come to Us for a Close Shave".
     

I was in Australia when Bob Shaw died, and the technology in 1996 didn't extend to tracking me down for a quote when the obituaries were being prepared. This was the letter I hastily got off to SFX Magazine when, just in time, I got back.
     
     
     
     
     
S heer D elight
     
                  I've just got back from Australia and heard the sad news about the death of Bob Shaw. I'd like to add my own memories to the other tributes.
     
                  I remember Bob's ideas. Slow Glass. How much would you pay to come up with an idea like that? And the training of the troopers in Who Goes Here? Just switch on your ray gun and keep it swit ched on until you've found the target — why didn't anyone else realise it