Nanny Ogg lived alone, because she said old people needed their pride and independence. Besides, Jason lived on one side, and he or his wife whatshername could easily be roused by means of a boot applied heavily to the wall, and Shawn lived on the other side and Nanny had got him to fix up a long length of string with some tin cans on it in case his presence was required. But this was only for emergencies, such as when she wanted a cup of tea or felt bored.

Bond drat clang . . .

Nanny Ogg had no bathroom but she did have a tin bath, which normally hung on a nail on the back of the privy. Now she was dragging it indoors. It was almost up the garden, after being bounced off various trees, walls, and garden gnomes on the way.

Three large black kettles steamed by her fireside. Beside them were half a dozen towels, the loofah, the pumice stone, the soap, the soap for when the first soap got lost, the ladle for fishing spiders out, the waterlogged rubber duck with the prolapsed squeaker, the bunion chisel, the big scrubbing brush, the small scrubbing brush, the scrubbing brush on a stick for difficult crevices, the banjo, the thing with the pipes and spigots that no one ever really knew the purpose of, and a bottle of Klatchian Nights bath essence, one drop of which could crinkle paint.

Bong clang slam . . .

Everyone in Lancre had learned to recognize Nanny's pre-ablutive activities, out of self-defense.

"But it ain't April!" neighbours told themselves, as they drew the curtains.

In the house just up the hill from Nanny Ogg's cottage Mrs. Skindle grabbed her husband's arm.

"The goat's still outside!"

"Are you mad? I ain't going out there! Not now!"

"You know what happened last time! It was paralysed all down one side for three days, man, and we couldn't get it down off the roof!"

Mr. Skindle poked his head out of the door. It had all gone quiet. Too quiet.

"She's probably pouring the water in," he said.

"You've got a minute or two," said his wife. "Go on, or we'll be drinking yoghurt for weeks."

Mr. Skindle took down a halter from behind the door, and crept out to where his goat was tethered near the hedge. It too had learned to recognize the bathtime ritual, and was rigid with apprehension.

There was no point in trying to drag it. Eventually he picked it up bodily.

There was a distant but insistent sloshing noise, and the bonging sound of a floating pumice stone bouncing on the side of a tin bath.

Mr. Skindle started to run.

Then there was the distant tinkle of a banjo being tuned.

The world held its breath.

Then it came, like a tornado sweeping across a prairie.

"AAaaaaeeeeeee-"

Three flowerpots outside the door cracked, one after the other. Shrapnel whizzed past Mr. Skindle's ear.

"-wizzaaardsah staaafff has a knobontheend, knobontheend-"

He threw the goat through the doorway and leapt after it. His wife was waiting, and slammed the door shut behind him.

The whole family, including the goat, got under the table.

It wasn't that Nanny Ogg sang badly. It was just that she could hit notes which, when amplified by a tin bath half full of water, ceased to be sound and became some sort of invasive presence.

There had been plenty of singers whose high notes could smash a glass, but Nanny's high C could clean it.

The Lancre Morris Men sat glumly on the turf, passing an earthenware jug between them. It had not been a good rehearsal.

"Don't work, does it?" said Thatcher. "'S'not funny, that I do know," said Weaver. "Can't see the king killing himself laughing at us playing a bunch of mechanical artisans not being very good at doin' a play."

"You're just no good at it," said Jason. "We're sposed to be no good at it," said Weaver. "Yeah, but you're no good at acting like someone who's ho good at acting," said Tinker. "I don't know how, but you ain't. You can't expect all the fine lords and ladies-"

A breeze blew over the moor, tasting of ice at midsummer.

"-to laugh at us not being any good at being no good at acting."

"I don't see what's funny about a bunch of rude artisans trying to do a play anyway," said Weaver.

Jason shrugged.

"It says all the gentry-"

A tang on the wind, the sharp tin taste of snow . . .

"-in Ankh-Morpork laughed at it for weeks and weeks," he said. "It was on Broad Way for three months."

"What's Broad Way?"

"That's where all the theatres are. The Dysk, Lord Wynkin's Men, the Bearpit . . ."

"They'd laugh at any damn thing down there," said Weaver. "Anyway, they all think we're all simpletons up here. They all think we say oo-aah and sings daft folk songs and has three brain cells huddlin' together for warmth 'cos of drinking scumble all the time."

"Yeah. Pass that jug."

"Swish city bastards."

"They don't know what it's like to be up to the armpit in a cow's backside on a snowy night. Hah!"

"And there ain't one of 'em that – what're you talking about? You ain't got a cow."

"No, but I know what it's like."

"They don't know what it's like to get one wellie sucked off in a farmyard full of gyppoe and that horrible moment where you waves the foot around knowin' that wherever you puts it down it's going to go through the crust."

The stoneware jug glugged gently as it was passed from hand to unsteady hand.

"True. That's very true. And you ever seen 'em Morris dancing? "Muff to make you hang up your hanky."

"What, Morris dancing in a city?"

"Well, down in Sto Helit, anyway. Bunch o' soft wizards and merchants. I watched 'em a whole hour and there wasn't even a groinin'."

"Swish city bastards. Comin' up here, takin' our jobs. . ."

"Don't be daft. They don't know what a proper job is."

The jug glugged, but with a deeper tone, suggesting that it contained a lot of emptiness.

"Bet they've never been up to the armpit-"

"The point is. The point is. The point. The point is. Hah. All laughin' at decent rude artisans, eh? I mean. I mean. I mean. What's it all about? I mean. I mean. I mean. Play's all about some mechanical. . . rude buggers makin' a pig's ear out of doin' a play about a bunch of lords and ladies-"

A chill in the air, sharp as icicles . . .

"It needs something else."

"Right. Right."

"A mythic element."

"Right. My point. My point. My point. Needs a plot they can go home whistlin'. Exactly."

"So it should be done here, in the open air. Open to the sky and the hills."

Jason Ogg wrinkled his brows. They were always pretty wrinkled anyway, whenever he was dealing with the complexities of the world. Only when it came to iron did he know exactly what to do. But he held up a wavering finger and tried to count his fellow thespians. Given that the jug was now empty, this was an effort. There seemed, on average, to be seven other people. But he had a vague, nagging feeling that something wasn't right.

"Out here," he said, uncertainly.

"Good idea," said Weaver.

"Wasn't it your idea?" said Jason.

"I thought you said it."

"I thought you did."

"Who cares who said it?" said Thatcher. "'S'a good idea. Seems . . . right."

"What was that about the miffic quality?"

"What's miffic?"

"Something you've got to have," said Weaver, theatrical expert. "Very important, your miffics."

"Me mam said no one was to go-" Jason began.

"We shan't be doing any dancing or anything," said Carter. "I can see you don't want people skulking around up here by 'emselves, doin' magic. But it can't be wrong if everyone comes here. I mean, the king and everyone. Your mam, too. Hah, I'd like to see any girls with no drawers on get past her!"