The book dropped out of her fingers and thirty seconds later she was soundasleep.

Surprisingly, no neighbour needed her in the night so she got up, dressed andbreakfasted in what was an almost unfamiliar world. She opened her door to takebreakfast to widow Crowdy and found Juliet on the doorstep.

The girl took a step back. ‘Are you goin’ out, Glendy? It’s early!’

‘Well, you’re up,’ said Glenda. ‘And with a newspaper, I’m pleased to see.’

‘Isn’t it exciting?’ said Juliet, and thrust the paper at her.

Glenda took one look at the picture on the front page, took a second, closerlook, and then grabbed Juliet and pulled her inside.

‘You can see their tonkers,’ Juliet observed, in a voice that was much toomatter-of-fact for Glenda’s liking.

‘You shouldn’t know what they look like!’ she said, smacking the paper down onher kitchen table.

‘What? I’ve got three brothers, ain’t I? Everyone bathes in a tub in front ofthe fire, don’t they? It’s not like they’re anything special. Anyway, it’sculture, all right? Remember when you took me to that place full of people inthe nuddy. You stayed in there hours.’

‘It was the Royal Art Museum,’ said Glenda, thanking her stars that they wereindoors. ‘That’s different!’

She tried to read the story, but it was very difficult with that amazingpicture beside it, just where an eye might stray again and again.

Glenda enjoyed her job. She didn’t have a career; they were for people whocould not hold down jobs. She was very good at what she did, so she did it allthe time, without paying much attention to the world. But now her eyes wereopened. In fact, it was time to blink.

Under the headline ‘New Light on Ancient Game’ was a picture of a vase or,rather more grandly, an urn, in orange and black. It showed some very tall andskinny men–their masculinity was beyond doubt, but possibly beyond belief. Theywere apparently struggling for possession of a ball; one of them was lying onthe ground, and looked as if he was in some pain. The translation of the nameof the urn was, said the caption, THE TACKLE.

According to the accompanying story, someone at the Royal Art Museum had foundthe urn in an old storeroom, and it contained scrolls which, it said here, hadthe original rules of foot-the-ball laid down in the early years of the centuryof the Summer Weevil, a thousand years ago, when the game was played in honourof the goddess Pedestriana…

Glenda skimmed through the rest of it, because there was a lot of rest to skim.An artist’s impression of the aforesaid goddess adorned page three. She was, ofcourse, beautiful. You seldom saw a goddess portrayed as ugly. This probablyhad something to do with their ability to strike people down instantly. InPedestriana’s case, she would probably have gone for the feet.

Glenda put the paper down, seething with anger, and as a cook she knew how toseethe. This wasn’t football–except that the Guild of Historians said that itwas, and could prove it not only with old parchments but also with an urn, andshe could see that you were on the wrong end of an argument if you were upagainst an urn.

But it was too neat, wasn’t it? Except… why? His lordship didn’t like football,but here was an article saying that this game was very old and had its owngoddess, and if there were two things this city liked, it was tradition andgoddesses, especially if the goddesses were a bit short on the chiffon abovethe waist. Did his lordship let them put anything in the paper? What was goingon? ‘I’ve got business to attend to,’ she said sternly. ‘It’s good that youbought a decent paper, but you don’t want to read this kind of stuff.’

‘I didn’t. Who’s interested in that? I got it for the advert. Look.’

Glenda had never bothered much about the adverts in the paper, because theywere put there by people who were after your money. But there it was, rightthere. Madame Sharn of Bonk gives you… micromail.

‘You said we could go,’ said Juliet pointedly.

‘Yes, well, that was before—’

‘You said we could go.’

‘Yes. But, well, has anyone from the Sisters ever gone to a fashion show? It’snot our kind of thing, is it?’

‘Doesn’t say that in the paper. Says admission free. You said we could go!’

Two o’clock, thought Glenda. Suppose I could manage it… ‘All right, meet atwork at half past one, do you hear? Not a minute later! I’ve got things to do.’

The University Council meets every day at half past eleven, she thought toherself. Oh, to be a fly on that wall. She grinned…

Trev was sitting in the battered old chair that served as his office in thevats. Work was proceeding at its usual reliable snail’s pace.

‘Ah, I see you are in early, Mister Trev,’ said Nutt. ‘I am sorry not to havebeen here. I had to go and deal with an emergency candelabra upset.’ He leanedcloser. ‘I have done what you asked, Mister Trev.’

Trev snapped out of his daydream of Juliet and said, ‘Huh?’

‘You asked me to write… to improve your poem for Miss Juliet.’

‘You’ve done it?’

‘Perhaps you would like to have a look, Mister Trev?’ He handed the paper toTrev and stood nervously by the chair as a pupil stands by the teacher.

After a very short while Trev’s forehead wrinkled. ‘What’s ee-er?’

‘That’s “e’er”, sir, as in “where e’er she walks”.’

‘You mean, like, she walks on air?’ said Trev.

‘No, Mister Trev. I should just put it down to poetry if I were you.’

Trev struggled on. He had never had much to do with poetry, except the sortthat started ‘There was a young lady of Quirm’, but this looked like the realstuff. The page seemed to be crowded and yet full of space as well. Also, thewriting was extremely curly and that was a sure sign, wasn’t it? You didn’t getthat sort of thing from the lady of Quirm. ‘This is great stuff, Mister Nutt.This is really great stuff. This is poetry, but what really is it sayin’?’

Nutt cleared his throat. ‘Well, sir, the essence of poetry of this nature is tocreate a mood that will make the recipient, that is to say, sir, the young ladywho you are going to send it to, feel very kindly disposed to the author of thepoem, which would be you, sir, in this case. According to Ladyship, everythingelse is just showing off. I have brought you a pen and an envelope; if youwould kindly sign the poem I will ensure that it gets to Miss Juliet.’

‘I bet no one’s ever written her a poem before,’ said Trev, skating quicklyover the truth that he hadn’t either. ‘I’d love to be there when she reads it.’

‘That would not be advised,’ said Nutt quickly. ‘The general consensus is thatthe lady concerned reads it in the absence of the hopeful swain, that is you,sir, and forms a beneficent mental picture of him. Your actual presence mightactually get in the way, especially since I see you haven’t changed your shirtagain today. Besides, I am informed that there is a possibility that all herclothes will fall off.’

Trev, who had been struggling with the concept of ‘swain’, fast-forwarded tothis information at speed. ‘Er, say that again?’

‘All her clothes might fall off. I am sorry about this, but it appears to be aby-product of the whole business of poetry. But broadly speaking, sir, itcarries the message you have asked for, which is to say “I think you’re reallyfit. I really fancy you. Can we have a date? No hanky panky, I promise.”However, sir, since it is a love poem, I have taken the liberty of altering itslightly to carry the suggestion that if hanky or panky should appear to bewelcomed by the young lady she will not find you wanting in either department.’

Archchancellor Ridcully rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, gentlemen, I hope wehave all seen the papers this morning, or glanced at them at any rate?’