The Wit And Wisdom Of Discworld

too much time in small rooms with the curtains drawn, instead of getting out in the healthy fresh air.
    For example, there’s the dancing around naked. In the average temperate climate there are very few nights when anyone would dance around at midnight with no clothes on, quite apart from the question of stones, thistles, and sudden hedge-hogs.
    Then there’s all that business with goat-headed gods. Most witches don’t believe in gods. They know that the gods exist, of course. They even deal with them occasionally. But they don’t believe in them. They know them too well. It would be like believing in the postman.
    And there’s the food and drink -the bits of reptile and so on. In fact, witches don’t go for that sort of thing. The worst you can say about the eating habits of the older type of witch is that they tend to like ginger biscuits dipped in tea with so much sugar in it that the spoon won’t move and will drink it out of the saucer if they think it’s too hot. And do so with appreciative noises more generally associated with the cheaper type of plumbing system. Legs of toad and so on might be better than this.
    Then there’s the mystic ointments. By sheer luck, the artists and writers are on firmer ground here. Most witches are elderly, which is when ointments start to have an attraction, and at least two of those present tonight were wearing Granny Weatherwax’s famous goose-grease-and-sage chest liniment. This didn’t make you flyand see visions, but it did prevent colds, if only because the distressing smell that developed around about the second week kept everyone else so far away you couldn’t catch anything from them.
    And finally there’s sabbats themselves. Your average witch is not, by nature, a social animal as far as other witches are concerned. There’s a conflict of dominant personalities. There’s a group of ringleaders without a ring. The natural size of a coven is one.

    ‘I can’t be having with foreign parts,’ said Granny Weather wax.
    ‘You’ve been to Ankh-Morpork,’ said Nanny mildly. ‘That’s foreign.’
    ‘No it’s not. It’s just a long way off

    Magrat would be the first to admit that she had an open mind. It was as open as a field, as open as the sky. No mind could be more open without special surgical implements. And she was always waiting for something to fill it up.
    *
    ‘I used to come over here quite often to look at Desiderata’s books,’ Magrat confessed. ‘And … and she liked to cook foreign food and no one else round here would eat it, so I’d come up to keep her company’
    ‘Ah-ha! Curryin’ favour!’ snapped Granny.
    *
    Magrat has adopted trousers as practical wear for travelling by broomstick.
    ‘I don’t ‘old with it,’ said Granny. ‘Everyone can see her legs.’
    ‘No they can’t,’ said Nanny. ‘The reason being, the material is in the way’
    Yes, but they can see where her legs are,’ said Granny Weatherwax.
    ‘That’s silly. That’s like saying everyone’s naked under their clothes,’ said Magrat.
    ‘Magrat Garlick, may you be forgiven,’ said Granny Weatherwax.
    ‘Well, it’s true!’
    ‘I’m not,’ said Granny flatly, ‘I got three vests on.’
    *
    To the rest of the world he was an enormous tomcat, a parcel of incredibly indestructible life forces in a skin that looked less like a fur than a piece of bread that had been left in a damp place for a fortnight. Ferocious dogs would whine and hide under the stairs when Greebo sauntered down the street. Foxes kept away from the village. Wolves made a detour.
    ‘He’s an old softie really,’ said Nanny.
    *
    Above the noise of the river they could all hear, now, the steady slosh-slosh of another craft heading towards them.
    ‘Someone’s following us!’ hissed Magrat.
    Two pale glows appeared at the edge of the lamplight. Eventually they turned out to be the eyes of a small grey creature, vaguely froglike, paddling towards them on a log.
    It reached the boat. Long clammy fingers grabbed the side, and a lugubrious face rose level with Nanny Ogg’s.
    ‘ ’ullo,’ it said. ‘It’sss my birthday.’
    All three of them stared at it for a while. Then Granny Weatherwax picked up an oar and hit it firmly over the head. There was a splash, and a distant cursing.
    ‘Horrible little bugger,’ said Granny, as they rowed on. ‘Looked like a troublemaker to me.’
    *
    ‘Blessings be on this house,’ Granny said, perfunctorily. It was always a good