'A  bathroom,'  said  the  Dean,  'designed by  Bloody Stupid  Johnson. Archchancellor  Weatherwax  only used it  once and then had  it  sealed  up! Mustrum, I beg you to reconsider! It's a Johnson!'

     There was something of a pause, because even Ridcully had to adjust his mind around this.

     The late  (or at least  severely delayed) Bergholt Stuttley Johnson was generally recognized as  the worst inventor  in  the  world, yet in  a  very specialized sense. Merely bad  inventors made things that failed to operate. He  wasn't  among these small  fry. Any fool  could make something that  did absolutely   nothing  when  you   pressed  the  button.   He   scorned  such fumble-fingered amateurs. Everything he built worked. It just didn't do what it said on the box. If you wanted a small  ground-to-air missile, you  asked Johnson  to design  an ornamental fountain.  It amounted to pretty much  the same thing.  But this never discouraged  him, or the morbid curiosity of his clients.  Music,  landscape gardening, architecture  - there was no start to his talents.

     Nevertheless, it was a little bit surprising to find that Bloody Stupid had  turned to bathroom design. But, as Ridcully  said, it was known that he had designed and built several  large musical organs and, when you got right down to it, it was all just plumbing, wasn't it?

     The other  wizards, who'd been there  longer than  the  Archchancellor, took  the view that  if Bloody Stupid Johnson had  built a fully  functional bathroom he'd actually meant it to be something else.

     'Y'know,  I've always felt  that  Mr Johnson was a much  maligned man,' said Ridcully, eventually.

     'Well,  yes, of  course he  was,' said  the  Lecturer in  Recent Runes, clearly exasperated. 'That's like saying that jam attracts wasps, you see.'

     'Not   everything  he  made   worked  badly,'  said  Ridcully  stoutly, flourishing his  scrubbing brush. 'Look at  that thing they use down  in the kitchens for peelin' the potatoes, for example.'

     'Ah, you  mean the thing  with  the  brass plate on it saying "Improved Manicure Device", Archchancellor?'

     'Listen, it's just water,' snapped  Ridcully. 'Even Johnson couldn't do much harm with water. Modo, open the sluices!'

     The rest of the wizards backed away  as the gardener turned a couple of ornate brass wheels.

     'I'm fed up with groping around for the soap like you fellows!' shouted the Archchancellor,  as water  gushed  through  hidden  channels.  'Hygiene. That's the ticket!'

     'Don't say we didn't warn you,' said the Dean, shutting the door.

     'Er, I still haven't worked out  where all the  pipes lead, sir,'  Modo ventured.

     'We'll find out, never you fear,' said Ridcully happily. He removed his hat  and  put  on a  shower cap of his  own  design.  In  deference  to  his profession, it was pointy. He picked up a yellow rubber duck.

     'Man the pumps, Mr Modo. Or dwarf them, of course, in your case.'

     'Yes, Archchancellor.'

     Modo hauled  on  a lever. The pipes started a hammering noise and steam leaked out of a few joints.

     Ridcully took a last look around the bathroom.

     It was  a  hidden  treasure, no doubt about it. Say what you like,  old Johnson must sometimes have got it  right, even if it  was only by accident. The entire room,  including  the floor and ceiling, had been tiled in white, blue and green. In  the  centre, under  its  crown  of pipes, was  Johnson's Patent  'Typhoon'  Superior  Indoor Ablutorium  with Automatic Soap  Dish, a sanitary poem in mahogany, rosewood and copper.

     He'd got Modo to polish every pipe and brass tap until they gleamed. It had taken ages.

     Ridcully shut the frosted door behind him.

     The inventor of the ablutionary  marvel  had  decided  to  make a  mere shower a fully controllable experience, and  one  wall of the large  cubicle held a marvellous  panel covered with brass taps  cast  in  the  shape  of mermaids and shells and, for some reason, pomegranates.  There were separate feeds for salt water, hard water and soft water and huge wheels for accurate control of temperature. Ridcully inspected them with care.

     Then he stood back, looked around at the tiles and sang, 'Mi, mi, mi!'

     His voice reverberated back at him.

     'A perfect echo!' said Ridcully, one of nature's bathroom baritones.

     He  picked up a  speaking  tube that had  been installed  to  allow the bather to communicate with the engineer.

     'All cisterns go, Mr Modo!'

     'Aye, aye, sir!'

     Ridcully opened the tap marked 'Spray' and leapt aside, because part of him was still  well aware that  Johnson's inventiveness didn't just push the edge of the envelope but often went across the room and out through the wall of the sorting office.

     A gentle shower of warm water, almost a caressing mist, enveloped him.

     'My word!' he exclaimed, and tried another tap.

     'Shower'  turned out to be a little more invigorating.  'Torrent'  made him gasp  for breath and 'Deluge' sent him groping  to the panel because the top  of his head felt that  it was being removed.  'Wave' sloshed a wall  of warm salt  water from  one side  of  the  cubicle  to the  other  before  it disappeared into the grating that was set into the middle of the floor.

     'Are you all right, sir?' Modo called out.

     'Marvellous! And there's a dozen knobs I haven't tried yet!'

     Modo nodded,  and  tapped a valve. Ridcully's voice, raised in  what he considered to be song, boomed out through the thick clouds of steam.

     'Oh,  IIIIIII  knew  a  ...  er  ... an  agricultural  worker  of  some description, possibly a  thatcher, And I  knew  him  well, and he - he was a farmer,  now I come to think of it - and he had a  daughter and her  name  I can't recall at the moment,

     And ... Where was P... Ah yes. Chorus:

     Something  something,  a  humorously  shaped  vegetable,  a  turnip,  I believe, something  something and the sweet nightingaleeeeaarggooooooh-ARGHH oh oh oh...'

     The song shut off suddenly. All Modo could hear was a ferocious gushing noise.

     'Archchancellor?'

     After a  moment  a  voice  answered from near  the ceiling.  It sounded somewhat high and hesitant.

     'Er . . . I  wonder if you would  be so very good as to  shut the water off from out there, my dear chap? Er ... quite gently, if you wouldn't      mind. . .'

     Modo carefully spun a wheel. The gushing sound gradually subsided.

     'Ah.  Well done,' said the  voice, but now from  somewhere nearer floor level. 'Well. Jolly good job. I think we  can  definitely call it a success. Yes, indeed.  Er.  I  wonder  if  you  could help  me walk  for a  moment. I inexplicably feel a little unsteady on my feet . . . '

     Modo pushed open the  door and helped Ridcully out and onto a bench. He looked rather pale.

     'Yes,  indeed,' said  the Archchancellor,  his eyes  a  little  glazed. 'Astoundingly successful. Er. Just a minor point, Modo ...'

     'Yes, sir?'

     'There's a  tap in there we perhaps should  leave alone  for now,' said Ridcully. 'I'd esteem it a service if you could go and make a little sign to hang on it.'

     'Yes, sir?'

     'Saying "Do not touch at all", or something like that.'

     'Right, sir.'

     'Hang it on the one marked "Old Faithful".'

     'Yes, sir.'

     'No need to mention it to the other fellows.'

     'Yes. sir.'

     'Ye gods, I've never felt so clean.'

     From a vantage point among some ornamental tilework  near the ceiling a small gnome in a bowler hat watched Ridcully carefully.

     When  Modo had gone the Archchancellor slowly began to dry himself on a big fluffy  towel. As he  got his composure back, so another song wormed its way under his breath.