Hogfather

     'Well,  there's so many nice  things  to be cheerful about,'  said  the Cheerful Fairy, blowing her nose again.

     'Er ... raindrops and sunsets and that sort  of thing?' said the Senior Wrangler, managing some sarcasm, but they could tell his heart wasn't in it. 'Er, would you like to borrow my handkerchief? It's nearly fresh.'

     'Why don't you get the lady a nice sherry?' said Ridcully. 'And some corn for her chicken ...'

     'Oh, I never drink alcohol,' said the Cheerful Fairy, horrified.

     'Really?' said Ridcully. 'We find  it's something to be cheerful about. Mr Stibbons ... would you be so kind as to step over here for a moment?'

     He beckoned him up close.

     'There's got  to be  a  lot of  belief sloshing  around to  let  her be created,' he said. 'She's a  good  fourteen stone,  if I'm any judge.  If we wanted to contact  the  Hogfather,  how would  we  go about  it?  Letter  up chimney?'

     'Yes, but not tonight, sir,' said Ponder. 'He'll be out delivering.'

     'No telling where he'll be, then,' said Ridcully. 'Blast.'

     'Of course, he might not have come here yet,' said Ponder.

     'Why should he come here?' said Ridcully.

     The Librarian pulled the blankets over himself and curled up.

     As an orang-utan he  hankered for  the warmth  of  the rainforest.  The problem was that he'd never even seen a rainforest,  having been turned into an  orang-utan when  he  was already a  fully  grown human. Something in his bones knew about it, though, and didn't like the cold of winter at  all. But he was also a librarian in those same bones and  he  flatly refused to allow fires to be lit in the library. As a result, pillows and blankets went missing  everywhere else  in the University and ended up in a sort of cocoon in the reference section, in which the ape lurked during the worst of the winter.

     He turned over and wrapped himself in the Bursar's curtains.

     There was a creaking outside his nest, and some whispering.

     'No, don't fight the lamp.'

     'I wondered why I hadn't seen him all evening.'

     'Oh, he goes to bed early on Hogswatch Eve, sir. Here we are . . .'

     There was some rustling.

     'We're in luck. It hasn't been  filled,'  said Ponder. 'Looks like he's used one of the Bursar's.'

     'He puts it up every year?'

     'Apparently.'

     'But it's not as though he's a child. A certain child- like simplicity, perhaps.'

     'It might be different for orang-utans, Archchancellor.'

     'Do they do it in the jungle, d'you think?'

     'I don't imagine so, sir. No chimneys, for one thing.'

     'And  quite  short  legs, of course. Extremely  underfunded in the sock area, orang-utans.  They'd be quids  in if  they could hang  up  gloves,  of course. Hogfather'd be on double shifts if they could  hang up their gloves. On account of the length of their arms.'

     'Very good, Archchancellor.'

     'I say, what's  this on the... my  word, a glass of sherry. Well, waste not, want not.' There was a damp glugging noise in the darkness.

     'I think that was supposed to be for the Hogfather, sir.'

     'And the banana?'

     'I imagine that's been left out for the pigs, sir.'

     'Pigs?'

     'Oh, you know, sir. Tusker and Snouter and  Gouger and Rooter. I mean,' Ponder stopped,  conscious  that a grown man shouldn't be  able  to remember this sort of thing, 'that's what children believe.'

     'Bananas  for pigs?  That's  not traditional,  is it? I'd have  thought acorns, perhaps. Or apples or swedes.'

     'Yes, sir, but the Librarian likes bananas, sir.'

     'Very nourishin' fruit, Mr Stibbons.'

     'Yes, sir. Although, funnily enough it's not actually a fruit, sir.'

     'Really?'

     'Yes,  sir. Botanically, it's  a  type of  fish, sir.  According  to my theory it's cladistically associated with  the Krullian pipefish, sir, which of course is also yellow and goes around in bunches or shoals.'

     'And lives in trees?'

     'Well, not usually,  sir.  The  banana  is  obviously exploiting a  new niche.'

     'Good heavens, really? It's  a  funny thing, but  I've never much liked bananas  and I've always  been a bit suspicious of fish, too. That'd explain it.'

     'Yes, sir.'

     'Do they attack swimmers?'

     'Not that I've heard, sir. Of course, they may be clever enough to only attack swimmers who're far from land.'

     'What, you mean sort of... high up? In the trees, as it were?'

     'Possibly, sir.'

     'Cunning, eh?'

     'Yes, sir.'

     'Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable, Mr Stibbons.'

     'Yes, sir.'

     A match flared in the darkness as Ridcully lit his pipe.

     The Ankh-Morpork wassailers had practised for weeks.

     The  custom was referred  to by Anaglypta Huggs, organizer of the  best and  most select group of the city's singers, as an  occasion for fellowship and good cheer.

     One should always be wary of people who talk unashamedly of 'fellowship and good  cheer' as if it were something that can be  applied to life like a poultice. Turn your  back for a moment and they  may well organize a Maypole dance  and, frankly, there's no  option then but to  try and make it  to the treeline.