Weatherwax suspiciously.
âOh . . . well . . . there ought to be someone to, you know, welcome people onto the stick and give them their meals,â said Magrat. âAnd tell them what to do if the magic fails, for example.â
âIf the magic fails everyoneâll crash into the ground and die,â Granny pointed out.
âYes, but someone will have to tell them how to do that,â said Nanny Ogg, winking at Magrat. âThey wonât know how to, not being experienced in flying.â
âAnd we could call ourselves . . .â she paused. As always on the Discworld, which was right on the very edge of unreality, little bits of realness crept in whenever someoneâs mind was resonating properly. This happened now.
â. . . Three Witches Airborne,â she said. âHow about that?â
â Broomsticks Airborne,â said Magrat. âOr Pan . . . air . . .â
âThereâs no need to bring religion into it,â sniffed Granny.
Nanny Ogg looked slyly from Granny to Magrat.
âWe could call it Vir â â she began.
A gust of wind caught all three sticks and whirled them up. There was a brief panic as the witches brought them under control.
âLoad of nonsense,â muttered Granny.
âWell, it passes the time,â said Nanny Ogg.
Granny looked morosely at the greenery below.
âYouâd never get people to do it,â she said. âLoad of nonsense.â
Dear Jason en famile,
Overleaf on the other side please find enclosed a sketch of somewhere some king died and was buried, search me why. Itâs in some village wear we stopped last night. We had some stuff it was chewy youâll never guess it was snails, and not bad and Esme had three helpins before she found out and then had a Row with the cook and Magrat was sick all night just at the thought of it and had the dire rear. Thinking of you your loving MUM. PS the privies here are DESGUSTING, they have them INDORES, so much for HIGEINE.
Several days passed.
In a quiet little inn in a tiny country Granny Weatherwax sat and regarded the food with deep suspicion. The owner hovered with the frantic expression of one who knows, even before he starts, that heâs not going to come out of this ahead of the game.
âGood simple home cooking,â said Granny. âThatâs all I require. You know me. Iâm not the demanding sort. No-one could say Iâm the demanding sort. I just want simple food. Not all grease and stuff. It comes to something when you complain about something in your lettuce and it turns out to be what you ordered.â
Nanny Ogg tucked her napkin into the top of her dress and said nothing.
âLike that place last night,â said Granny. âYouâd think youâd be all right with sandwiches, wouldnât you? I mean . . . sandwiches? Simplest food there is in the whole world. Youâd think even foreigners couldnât get sandwiches wrong. Hah!â
âThey didnât call them sandwiches, Granny,â said Magrat, her eyes dwelling on the ownerâs frying pan. âThey called them . . . I think they called them smorgyâs board.â
âThey was nice,â said Nanny Ogg. âIâm very partial to a pickled herring.â
âBut they must think weâre daft, not noticing theyâd left off the top slice,â said Granny triumphantly. âWell, I told them a thing or two! Another time theyâll think twice before trying to swindle people out of a slice of bread thatâs theirs by rights!â
âI expect they will,â said Magrat darkly.
âAnd I donât hold with all this giving things funny names so people donât know what theyâre eating,â said Granny, determined to explore the drawbacks of international cookery to the full. âI like stuff that tells you plain what it is,
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