Hogfather

     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.

     'On the second day of Hogswatch I ... sent my true love back

     A  nasty  little  letter, hah,  yes indeed,  and a partridge in a  pear tree ...'

     The  gnome  slid down  onto the tiles  and crept up  behind the briskly shaking shape.

     Ridcully, after a few more trial  runs, settled on a song which evolves somewhere on every planet where there are winters. It's often dragooned into the service  of some local religion  and a few words are changed,  but  it's really about things that  have to do with  gods only  in the same  way  that roots have to do with leaves.

     '...the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer ...'