Unseen Academicals

But it was too neat, wasn’t it? Except … why? His lordship didn’t like football, but here was an article saying that this game was very old and had its own goddess, and if there were two things this city liked, it was tradition and goddesses, especially if the goddesses were a bit short on the chiffon above the waist. Did his lordship let them put anything in the paper? What was going on? ‘I’ve got business to attend to,’ she said sternly. ‘It’s good that you bought a decent paper, but you don’t want to read this kind of stuff.’

‘I didn’t. Who’s interested in that? I got it for the advert. Look.’

Glenda had never bothered much about the adverts in the paper, because they were put there by people who were after your money. But there it was, right there. Madame Sharn of Bonk gives you … micromail.

‘You said we could go,’ said Juliet pointedly.

‘Yes, well, that was before—’

‘You said we could go.’

‘Yes. But, well, has anyone from the Sisters ever gone to a fashion show? It’s not our kind of thing, is it?’

‘Doesn’t say that in the paper. Says admission free. You said we could go!’

Two o’clock, thought Glenda. Suppose I could manage it… ‘All right, meet at work at half past one, do you hear? Not a minute later! I’ve got things to do.’

The University Council meets every day at half past eleven, she thought to herself. Oh, to be a fly on that wall. She grinned …

Trev was sitting in the battered old chair that served as his office in the vats. Work was proceeding at its usual reliable snail’s pace.

‘Ah, I see you are in early, Mister Trev,’ said Nutt. ‘I am sorry not to have been here. I had to go and deal with an emergency candelabra upset.’ He leaned closer. ‘I have done what you asked, Mister Trev.’

Trev snapped out of his daydream of Juliet and said, ‘Huh?’ ‘You asked me to write … to improve your poem for Miss Juliet.’

‘You’ve done it?’

‘Perhaps you would like to have a look, Mister Trev?’ He handed the paper to Trev and stood nervously by the chair as a pupil stands by the teacher.

After a very short while Trev’s forehead wrinkled. ‘What’s ee-er?’

‘That’s “e’er”, sir, as in “where e’er she walks”.’

‘You mean, like, she walks on air?’ said Trev.

‘No, Mister Trev. I should just put it down to poetry if I were you.’

Trev struggled on. He had never had much to do with poetry, except the sort that started ‘There was a young lady of Quirm’, but this looked like the real stuff. The page seemed to be crowded and yet full of space as well. Also, the writing was extremely curly and that was a sure sign, wasn’t it? You didn’t get that sort of thing from the lady of Quirm. ‘This is great stuff, Mister Nutt. This is really great stuff. This is poetry, but what really is it sayin’?’

Nutt cleared his throat. ‘Well, sir, the essence of poetry of this nature is to create a mood that will make the recipient, that is to say, sir, the young lady who you are going to send it to, feel very kindly disposed to the author of the poem, which would be you, sir, in this case. According to Ladyship, everything else is just showing off. I have brought you a pen and an envelope; if you would kindly sign the poem I will ensure that it gets to Miss Juliet.’

‘I bet no one’s ever written her a poem before,’ said Trev, skating quickly over the truth that he hadn’t either. ‘I’d love to be there when she reads it.’

‘That would not be advised,’ said Nutt quickly. ‘The general consensus is that the lady concerned reads it in the absence of the hopeful swain, that is you, sir, and forms a beneficent mental picture of him. Your actual presence might actually get in the way, especially since I see you haven’t changed your shirt again today. Besides, I am informed that there is a possibility that all her clothes will fall off.’

Trev, who had been struggling with the concept of ‘swain’, fast-forwarded to this information at speed. ‘Er, say that again?’

‘All her clothes might fall off. I am sorry about this, but it appears to be a by-product of the whole business of poetry. But broadly speaking, sir, it carries the message you have asked for, which is to say “I think you’re really fit. I really fancy you. Can we have a date? No hanky panky, I promise.” However, sir, since it is a love poem, I have taken the liberty of altering it slightly to carry the suggestion that if hanky or panky should appear to be welcomed by the young lady she will not find you wanting in either department.’

***

Archchancellor Ridcully rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, gentlemen, I hope we have all seen the papers this morning, or glanced at them at any rate?’

‘I thought that the front page was not the place,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. ‘It quite put me off my breakfast. Metaphorically speaking, of course.’