The Wit And Wisdom Of Discworld

question?’
    *
    The Opera House was that most efficiently multifunctional of building designs. It was a cube. But the architect had suddenly realized late in the day that there ought to be some sort of decoration, and had shoved it on hurriedly, in a riot of friezes, pillars, corybants and curly bits. Gargoyles had colonized the higher reaches. The effect, seen from the front, was of a huge wall of tortured stone.
    Round the back, of course, there was the usual drab mess of windows, pipes and damp stone walls. One of the rules of a certain type of public architecture is that it only happens at the front.
    *
    ‘Well, basically there are two sorts of opera,’ said Nanny, who also had the true witch’s ability to be confidently expert on the basis of no experience whatsoever. ‘There’s your heavy opera, where basically people sing foreign and it goes like “Oh oh oh, I am dyin’, oh, I am dyin’, oh, oh, oh, that’s what I’m doin’”, and there’s your light opera, where they sing in foreign and it basically goes “Beer! Beer! Beer! Beer! I like to drink lots of beer!”, although sometimes they drink champagne instead. That’s basically all of opera, reely’
    *
    Someone tapped Granny Weatherwax on her shoulder. ‘Madam, kindly remove your hat.’
    Nanny Ogg choked on her peppermint.
    Granny Weatherwax turned to the red-faced gentleman behind her. ‘You do know what a woman in a pointy hat is, don’t you?’ she said.
    ‘Yes, madam. A woman in a pointy hat is sitting in front of me.’
    *
    People didn’t take any notice of little old ladies who looked as though they fitted in, and Nanny Ogg could fit in faster than a dead chicken in a maggot factory.

    Nanny had a mind like a buzzsaw behind a face like an elderly apple.

    This was Ankh-Morpork’s most prestigious dress shop, and one way of telling was the apparent absence of anything so crass as merchandise. The occasional carefully placed pieceof expensive material merely hinted at the possibilities available.
    This was not a shop where things were bought. This was an emporium where you had a cup of coffee and a chat. Possibly, as a result of that muted conversation, four or five yards of exquisite fabric would change ownership in some ethereal way, and yet nothing so crass as trade would have taken place.

    There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen,
    although it was really more of a crashendo—the long-drawn-out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter-theme when the person realizes they don’t have three hands, and ends with the roinroin-roin of the one miraculously intact plate spinning round and round on the floor.

    ‘Everyone acts as if it’s only the music that matters! The plots don’t make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they’ve got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! There should be a sign on the door saying “Leave your common sense here”! If it wasn’t for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!’
    *
    ‘Madam has marvellous hair,’ said the hairdresser. ‘What is the secret?’
    ‘You’ve got to make sure there’s no newts in the water,’ said Granny.
    *
    The hulking figure seated at the organ turned around and gave her a friendly grin, which was much wider than the average grin. Its owner was covered in red hair and, while shortchanged in the leg department, had obviously been first in the queue when the arm counter opened. And had also been given a special free offer of lip.
    *
    Nanny didn’t so much enter places as insinuate herself; she had unconsciously taken a natural talent for liking people and developed it into an occult science.
    *
    ‘And what can I get you, officers?’ she said.
    ‘Officers? Us? What makes you think we’re watchmen?’
    ‘He’s got a helmet on,’ Nanny pointed out.
    ‘Milit’ry chic,’ Nobby said. ‘It’s just a fashion accessory. Actually, we are gentlemen of means and have nothingto do with the City Watch whatsoever.’
    ‘Well, gentlemen, would you like some wine?’
    ‘Not while we on duty, t’anks,’ said the troll.
    *
    Granny Weatherwax could be nasty, but then nastiness was always in the window: you were aware that it might turn up on the menu. Sharpness from Nanny Ogg, though, was like being bitten by a big friendly dog. It was all the worse for