'You're for life, not just for Hogswatch,' prompted Albert. 'Life  goes on, master. In a manner of speaking.'

BUT THIS IS HOGSWATCHNIGHT.

     'Very  traditional  time  for this sort of  thing, I  understand,' said Albert.

     I THOUGHT IT WAS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY, said Death.

     'Ah,  well, yes, you see, one of the  things that makes folks even more jolly  is  knowing  there're   people  who   ain't,'   said  Albert,   in  a matter-of-fact voice. 'That's how it goes, master. Master?'

 NO.

Death stood up.

THIS IS HOW IT SHOULDN'T GO.

     The University's Great Hall had  been set for the Hogswatchnight Feast. The  tables  were already groaning under the weight of  the  cutlery, and it would be hours before any real food  was put  on  them. It was hard  to  see where  there would be space  for any  among  the drifts  of ornamental fruit bowls and forests of wine glasses.

     The oh god picked up a menu and turned to the fourth page.

     'Course four: molluscs and crustaceans. A medley of lobster, crab, king crab,  prawn,  shrimp,  oyster,  clam,  giant  mussel, green-lipped  mussel, thin-lipped mussel and Fighting Tiger Limpet. With a herb and butter dipping sauce. Wine: "Three Wizards"  Chardonnay, Year of  the Talking  Frog.  Beer: Winkles' Old Peculiar.' He put it down. 'That's one course?' he said.

     'They're big men in the food department,' said Susan.

     He turned the menu over. On the cover was the University's coat of arms and, over it, three large letters in ardent script:  "E B P"

     'Is this some sort of magic word?'

     'No.' Susan sighed. 'They  put it on all their menus. You might call it the unofficial motto of the University.'

     'What's it mean?'

     'Eta Beta Pi.'

     Bilious gave her an expectant look.

     'Yes . . .?'

     'Er ... like, Eat a Better Pie?' said Susan.

     'That's what you just said, yes,' said the oh god.

     'Urn. No. You see, the letters are Ephebian characters which just sound a bit like "eat a better Pie".

     'Ah.' Bilious nodded wisely. 'I can see that might cause confusion.'

     Susan  felt  a  bit  helpless  in  the  face  of  the look  of  helpful puzzlement. 'No,' she said, 'in fact they are supposed to cause a little bit of confusion, and  then you laugh. It's called a pune or play  on words. Eta Beta Pi.' She eyed  him carefully. 'You laugh,' she said. 'With your  mouth. Only,  in  fact,  you don't  laugh, because you're not supposed to laugh  at things like this.'

     'Perhaps I could  find that glass of milk,' said the oh god helplessly, peering at  the huge array  of jugs and bottles.  He'd  clearly given up  on sense of humour.

     'I gather the Archchancellor won't have milk in the University,' said Susan. 'He says  he knows  where it comes from and it's  unhygienic. And that's  a  man who eats  three  eggs for breakfast every day, mark you. How do you know about milk, by the way?'

     'I've got ... memories,' said the oh god. 'Not exactly of anything, er, specific. just, you know, memories. Like, I know trees usually grow greenend up ... that sort of thing. I suppose gods just know things.'

     'Any special god-like powers?'

     'I might be able to turn water into  an enervescent drink.' He  pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Is that any help? And it's just possible I can give people a blinding headache.'

     'I need to find out why my grandfather is ... acting strange.'

     'Can't you ask him?'

     'He won't tell me!'

     'Does he throw up a lot?'

     'I shouldn't think so. He doesn't often eat. The occasional curry, once or twice a month.'

     'He must be pretty thin.'

     'You've no idea.'

     'Well, then ... Does he  often stare  at himself in the mirror  and say "Arrgh"? Or stick out his tongue and wonder why it's  gone  yellow? You see, it's possible  I might  have some  measure of  influence over people who are hung over. If he's been drinking a lot, I might be able to find him.'

     'I can't see him doing any of those things. I think I'd better tell you ... My grandfather is Death.'

     'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.'

     'I said Death.'

     'Sorry?'

     'Death. You know ... Death?'

     'You mean the robes, the ...'

     '...scythe, white horse, bones . . .. yes. Death.'

     'I just want to  make  sure I've  got this dear,' said the oh god  in a reasonable tone of voice. 'You think your grandfather is Death and you think he's acting strange?'

     The Eater of Socks looked up  at the wizards, cautiously. Then its jaws started to work again.

     ... grnf, grnf ...

     'Here, thats one of mine!' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, making a grab. The Eater of Socks backed away hurriedly.

     It looked like a very small elephant with a very wide, flared trunk, up which one of the Chair's socks was disappearing.

     'Funny lookin'  little  thing, ain't it?'  said  Ridcully, leaning  his staff against the wall.

     'Let go, you wretched creature!' said the Chair, making a  grab for the sock. 'Shoo!'

     The sock eater tried  to  get  away while  remaining where it was. This should  be  impossible,  but it is in  fact  a move  attempted by many small animals when they are caught eating  something forbidden.  The legs scrabble hurriedly but the neck and  feverishly working jaws merely stretch  and pivot around  the food. Finally the last of the sock  disappeared  up  the  snout with a faint sucking noise and the creature lumbered off behind one of the boilers. After a while it poked one suspicious eye around the corner to watch them.

     'They're expensive, you know, with  the flaxreinforced heel,'  muttered the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

     Ridcully pulled open a drawer in  his hat  and extracted his pipe and a pouch of  herbal tobacco.  He struck a  match  on  the side  of the  washing engine. This was turning  out  to be a far more  interesting evening than he had anticipated.

     'We've  got  to get  this sorted out,'  he said, as the first few puffs filled  the washing  hall  with  the scent of autumn bonfires.  'Can't  have creatures just popping into existence because someone's thought  about them. It's unhygienic.'

     The sleigh slewed around at the end of Money Trap Lane.

COME ON, ALBERT.

     'You know  you're not supposed to do  this sort of  thing, master.  You know what happened last time.'

THE HOGFATHER CAN DO IT, THOUGH.

     'But  ... little  match girls  dying in  the snow  is part  of what the Hogswatch spirit is all about, master,' said Albert desperately. 'I  mean,  people hear  about it  and say, "We  may be  poorer than a disabled  banana and only  have mud  and old boots to  eat,  but  at least  we're better off than the  poor little  match girl," master. It makes them feel happy and grateful for  what  they've got, see.'

I KNOW WHAT THE SPIRIT OF HOGSWATCH IS, ALBERT.

     'Sorry, master. But, look, it's all right, anyway, because she wakes up and  it's all  bright  and shining and  tinkling  music and  there's angels, master.'

     Death stopped.

AH. THEY TURN UP AT THE LAST MINUTE WITH WARM CLOTHES AND A HOT DRINK?

     Oh dear, thought Albert. The  master's really in one of his funny moods now.

     'Er. No. Not exactly at the last minute, master. Not as such.'

WELL?

     'More sort of just after the last minute.' Albert coughed nervously.

     YOU MEAN AFTER SHE'S...

     'Yes. That's how the story goes, master, 's not my fault.'

WHY NOT TURN UP BEFORE? AN ANGEL HAS QUITE A LARGE CARRYING CAPACITY.