Terry Pratchett: Making Money

'This is a hospital, yes?' he said, sitting up in the bed.

'Well done, your lordship. You are in the Lord Vetinari ward, as a matter of fact.'

That is fine, Cosmo thought. I endowed a ward at some time. That was very forward-looking of me.

'And those men are bodyguards?' he said, nodding at the men.

'Well, they are here to see that no harm comes to you,' said the nurse, 'so I suppose that's true.'

There were a number of other patients in the long ward, all in white robes, some of them seated and playing board games, and a number of them standing at the big window, staring out. They stood in identical poses, their hands clasped behind their backs. Cosmo watched them for some time.

Then he stared at the small table where two men were sitting opposite one another, apparently taking it in turns to measure each other's forehead. He had to pay careful attention for some time before he worked out what was going on. But Lord Vetinari was not a man to jump to conclusions.

'Excuse me, nurse,' said Cosmo, and she hurried over. He beckoned her closer, and the two burly men drew nearer, too, watching him carefully.

'I know those people are not entirely sane,' he said. 'They think they are Lord Vetinari, am I right? This is a ward for such people, yes? Those two are having an eyebrow-raising competition!'

'You are quite right,' said the nurse. 'Well done, my lord.'

'Doesn't it puzzle them when they see one another?'

'Not really, my lord. Each one thinks he's the real one.'

'So they don't know that I am the real one?'

One of the guards leaned forward. 'No, my lord, we're keeping very quiet about it,' he said, winking at his colleague.

Cosmo nodded. 'Very good. This is a wonderful place to stay while I'm getting better. The perfect place to be incognito. Who would think of looking for me in this room of poor, sad madmen?'

'That's exactly the plan, sir.'

'You know, some sort of artificial skyline would make things more interesting for the poor souls at the window,' he said.

'Ah, we can tell you're the real thing, sir,' said the man.

Cosmo beamed. And two weeks later, when he won the eyebrow-raising competition, he was happier than he'd ever been before.

The Pink PussyCat Club was packed — except for seat seven (front row, centre).

The record for anyone remaining in seat seven was nine seconds. The baffled management had replaced the cushions and the springs several times. It made no difference. On the other hand, everything else was going so inexplicably well there seemed to be a good atmosphere in the place, especially among the dancers, who were working extra hard now that someone had invented a currency that could be stuck into a garter. The place was happy, the management concluded. That was worth a seat, especially in view of what had happened when they tried to take the damn thing away…

Hemlines as a measure of national crisis (p.64): The author will be forever grateful to the renowned military historian and strategist Sir Basil Liddell Hart for imparting this interesting observation to him in 1968. It may explain why the mini-skirt has, since the sixties, never really gone out of style.

Students of the history of computing will recognize in the Glooper a distant echo of the Phillips Economic Computer, built in 1949 by engineer-turned-economist Bill Phillips, which also made an impressive hydraulic model of the national economy. No Igors were involved, apparently. One of the early machines can be found in the Science Museum, London, and a dozen or so others are on display around the world for the interested observer.

And finally, as ever, the author is grateful to the British Heritage Joke Foundation for its work in ensuring that the fine old jokes never die…

A periodical published throughout the Plains, noted for its coverage of murders (preferably 'orrible), trials, prison escapes, and the world that in general is surrounded by a chalk outline. Very popular.

An invention of which Moist was very proud The people of Ankh-Morpork took a straightforward approach to letter writing which could be summarized as: if I know what I mean, so should you As a result, the Post Office was used to envelopes addressed to 'My brofer John, tall, by the brij' or 'Mrs Smith wot does, Dolly Sistres' The keen and somewhat worrying intellects employed in the Blind Letter Office enjoyed the challenge, and during their tea break they played chess in their heads

The dwarfs didn't think to count them and see if any had been left behind It wouldn't have made any difference, but later on the King might not have shouted at them so much.

To considering implications and intervening with due clarification: $12.98.

In fact they would probably laugh at you if you said 'sausages'. They laugh at lots of things.

Fortunately, this is the case.

'Wasting Watch time' is an offence commited by citizens who have found ways of wasting said time that haven't already been invented by the Watch themselves

The strange thing about what lawyers have fun with is that no one else ever sees the joke.

Who was being guarded from whom was not, at this point, either certain or germane. Guarding was in the process of happening .

As a member of the Ancient and Venerable Order of Greengrocers', Mr Parker was honour bound never to put his punctuation in the right place.

The only real expense was tea and biscuits halfway through, which seldom happened with the Iron Maiden

1 down: Shaken players shift the load (9 letters). Lord Vetinari had sneered at it.

Total cost including time and disbursements AM$253.16