The Wit And Wisdom Of Discworld

A little bird told me when we changed guard, sir! Said you’d asked him, sir!’
    ‘Oh, so Jackrum’s little lads are gangin’ up on their kindly ol’ sergeant, are they?’ said Jackrum.
    ‘Nosir. Sharing information important to the squad in a vital survival situation, sarge!’
    ‘But I see you’re not standing in a bleedin’ shadow, Perks, nor have you done anything to change your bleedin’ shape, you’re silhouetted against the bleedin’ light and your sabre’s shining like a diamond in a chimney-sweep’s bleedin’ ear’ole! Explain!’
    ‘It’s because of the one C, sarge!’ said Polly, still staring straight ahead.
    ‘And that is?’
    ‘Colour, sarge! I’m wearing bleedin’ red and white in a bleedin’ grey forest, sarge!’
    She risked a sideways glance. In Jackrum’s little piggy eyes there gleamed a gleam. It was the one you got when he was secretly pleased.
    ‘Ashamed of your lovely, lovelyuniform, Perks?’ he said.
    ‘Don’t want to be seen dead in it, sarge,’ said Polly.
    *
    ‘General Tacticus said the fate of a battle may depend upon the actions of one man in the right place, sergeant,’ said Blouse, calmly.
    ‘And having a lot more soldiers than the other bugger, sir,’ Jackrum insisted.
    *
    ‘Is that rum, sarge?’ said Polly.
    ‘Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn’t it be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don’t have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman.’
    ‘Hangman?’ said Shufti.
    ‘One drop and you’re dead,’ said Polly.
    *
    ‘All right,’ Polly whispered. ‘Remember, no swearing. No weapons, either. Anyone brought a weapon?’
    There was a shaking of heads.
    ‘Did you bring a weapon, Tonk— Magda?’
    ‘No, Polly’
    ‘No item of any sort with a certain weapon-like quality?’ Polly insisted.
    ‘No, Polly’ said Tonker demurely.
    ‘Anything, perhaps, with an edge?’
    ‘Oh, you mean this?’
    ‘Yes, Magda.’
    ‘Well, a woman can carry a knife, can’t she?’
    ‘It’s a sabre, Magda. You’re trying to hide it, but it’s a sabre.’
    ‘But I’m only using it like a knife, Polly’
    ‘It’s three feet long, Magda.’
    ‘Size isn’t important, Polly’
    ‘No one believes that. Leave it behind a tree, please.’

     
    It is an established fact that, despite everything society can do, girls of seven are magnetically attracted to the colour pink.

    ‘Sir, you know you said you were going to steal a gate key off a guard and break his neck?’ said Polly.
    ‘Indeed.’
    ‘Do you know how to break a man’s neck, sir?’
    ‘I read a book on martial arts, Perks.’
    ‘But you haven’t actually done it, sir?’
    ‘Well, no! I was at HQ, and you are not allowed to practise on real people, Perks.’
    ‘Look, sir, I’m just a … what is your name, please?’
    ‘Sam Vimes. Special envoy, which is kind of like an ambassador but without the little gold chocolates.’
    *
    Trying to break into a fortified and heavily guarded keep, the male Lieutenant Blouse comes up with a cunning plan, which he explains to one of his soldiers, who (unknown to him) is really female. This is the Inexorable Law of Comic Cross-Dressing:
    ‘Astonishingly enough, Perks,’ said Blouse, ‘in your boyish enthusiasm you have given me a very interesting idea … because, of course, we only need one “washerwoman” to get us inside, do we not? And if one thinks “outside of the box”, the “woman” does not in fact need to be a woman!’
    Blouse beamed. Polly allowed her brow to wrinkle in honest puzzlement.
    ‘Doesn’t she, sir?’ she said. ‘I don’t think I quite understand, sir.’
    ‘“She”, could be a man! One of us! In disguise.’
    ‘I’ll go,’ said Polly quietly.
    ‘Really private. It would simply not work,’ said Blouse. ‘Oh, you’re brave, certainly, but what makes you think you stand a chance of passing yourself off as a woman?’
    ‘Well, sir … what?’
    Blouse shook his head. ‘No, they would see through you in a flash. You are a fine bunch of lads, but there is only one man here who’d stand a chance of getting away with it. Manickle?’
    ‘Yessir?’ said Shufti, rigid with instant panic.
    ‘Can you find me a dress, do you think?’
    ‘Sir, are you telling us … you’re going to try to get in dressed as a woman?’
    ‘Well, I’m clearly the only one who’s had any practice,’ said Blouse, rubbing his hands together.