"How long will it take you to teach me to play?" said Vimes. "You? You"ve never played it at all?"
"No. A certain troll showed me the game a little while ago, but I"ve never played games since I grew up. I used to be good at tiddley-rats [1] when I was a nipper, though:
"Well, a few hours should be-" Bashfullsson began.
"We don"t have time," said Vimes. "You"ve got ten minutes:
[1] A famous Ankh-Morpork gutter sport, second only to Dead Rat Conkers. Turd Races in the gutter appear to have died out, despite an attempt to take them upmarket with the name Poosticks.
The drinking had started in The Bucket, in Gleam Street. This was the coppers" pub. Mr Cheese, the owner, understood about coppers. They liked to drink somewhere where they wouldn"t see anything that reminded them they were a copper. Fun was not encouraged.
It was Tawneee who suggested that they move to Thank Gods It"s Open.
Angua wasn"t really in the mood, but she hadn"t the heart to say no. The plain fact was that while Tawneee had a body that every other woman should hate her for, she compounded the insult by actually being very likeable. This was because she had the selfesteem of a caterpillar and, as you found out in any kind of conversation with her, about the same amount of brain. Perhaps it all balanced out, perhaps some kindly god had said to her: "Sorry, kid, you are going to be thicker than a yard of lard, but the good news is, that"s not going to matter."
And she had a stomach made of iron, too. Angua found herself wondering how many hopeful men had died trying to drink her under the table. Alcohol didn"t seem to go to her head at all. Maybe it couldn"t find it. But she was pleasant, easygoing company, if you avoided allusion, irony, sarcasm, repartee, satire and words longer than "chicken:
Angua was tetchy because she was dying for a beer, but the young man behind the bar thought that "a pint of Winkles" was the name of a cocktail. Given the drinks on offer, perhaps this was not surprising.
"What," said Angua, reading the menu, "is a Screaming Orgasm?" "Ah," said Sally. "Looks like we got to you just in time, girl!"
"No," sighed Angua, as the others laughed; that was such a vampire response. "I mean, what"s it made of?"
"Almonte, Wahlulu, Bearhuggers Whiskey Cream and vodka," said Tawneee, who knew the recipe for every cocktail ever made.
"And how does it work?" said Cheery, craning to see over the top of the bar.
Sally ordered four, and turned back to Tawneee. "So ... you and Nobby Nobbs, eh?" she said. "How about that?" Three sets of ears flared.
The other thing you got used to in the presence of Tawneee was silence. Everywhere she went, went quiet. Oh, and the stares. The silent stares. And sometimes, in the shadows, a sigh. There were goddesses who"d kill to look like Tawneee.
"He"s nice," said Tawneee. "He makes me laugh and he keeps his hands to himself."
Three faces locked in expressions of concentrated thought. This was Nobby they were talking about. There were so many questions they were not going to ask.
"Has he shown you the tricks he can do with his spots?" Angua said.
"Yes. I thought I"d widdle myself! He"s so funny!"
Angua stared into her drink. Cheery coughed. Sally studied the menu.
"And he"s very dependable," said Tawneee. And, as if dimly aware that this was still not sufficient, she added sadly, "If you must know, he"s the first boy who"s ever asked me out."
Sally and Angua breathed out together. Light dawned. Ah, that was the problem. And this one"s a baaaad case.
"I mean, my hair"s all over the place, my legs are too long and I know my bosom is far too-" Tawneee went on, but Sally had raised a quieting hand.
"First point, Tawneee-"
"My real name"s Betty," said Tawneee, blowing a nose so exquisite that the greatest sculptor in the world would have wept to carve it. It went Blort.
"First point, then ... Betty" Sally managed, struggling to use the name, "is that no woman under forty-five-"
"Fifty; Angua corrected.
"Right, fifty ... no woman under fifty uses the word "bosom" to name anything connected to her. You just don"t do it." "I didn"t know that," Tawneee sniffed.
"It"s a fact," said Angua. And, oh dear, how to begin to explain the jerk syndrome? To someone like Tawneee, on whom the name Betty stuck like rocks to a ceiling? This wasn"t just a case of the jerk syndrome, this was it, the quintessential, classic, pure platonic example, which should be stuffed and mounted and preserved as a teaching aid for students in the centuries to come. And she was happy with Nobby!