3 Actually, at the time young Geoffrey didn’t know it was a portico, but it was a portico all right and the fact that he didn’t know it was a portico didn’t stop it being one.
4 Once you have one old shed somehow you always end up with another one, and after that anything can happen.
5 The belief that a bird pooing on your head is good luck is common to many cultures. When you ask why, the ribald reply is often, ‘Well, it weren’t a cow.’ In fact birds were often perceived as messengers of the gods and their movements (both geographical and biological) as part of some divine plan. Needless to say only those endowed with arcane knowledge could understand the particular message in bird poo. However, it is believed that some Ephebian philosophers stood for hours under trees hoping for ‘a message’ – which they got, but invariably the message was that they should soon clean their jackets.
Bird poo is one of nature’s special garnishes. A bird’s insides are cunningly designed to preserve fluid and the slimy green poo is iced with white solid wee, as every schoolboy knows, or did, back in the days when schoolboys knew such things.
6 Sir Charles Lavatory is the president of the Guild of Plumbers and Dunnakin Divers in Ankh-Morpork. Geoffrey will make his acquaintance before too long.
A TRIP TO THE PARK AND A NEW FRIEND
VERY EARLY THE next morning Geoffrey ventured back into the water closet. He sat on the seat with his legs dangling while Widdler the dog ran round in circles unravelling a roll of soft paper, clearly in some kind of dog heaven. Geoffrey felt like a king on his grand throne. Indeed, like many a king, he was perched on the edge precariously, quite concerned that if he wasn’t careful he might slip off; in his case, into the great bowl and its contents below. Eventually, the business at hand being finished, Geoffrey was pleased to see he wouldn’t have to climb up again to reach the chain because someone had very kindly added a length of cord with a cotton reel on the end so it was low enough for him to reach with ease.
Picking up Widdler, Geoffrey wandered down to the kitchen hoping to find some breakfast. The big kitchen seemed empty but, as in many kitchens in old houses, there was a lot of life going on out of sight. There were rats romping along the drains, biting through pipes and the backs of cupboards, and popping up in the sink and through the skirting board. There were all manner of beetles and weevils and spiders and, in the damp corner under the sink, a collection of snails stuck to the wall. As Geoffrey opened a cupboard or two, hoping to find something to eat, he heard a scurrying scratchy sound coming from behind the pantry door. Between a pot of raspberry jam and a large jar of pickled eggs sat a small grey mouse. The mouse looked at Geoffrey and Geoffrey looked at the mouse. The mouse looked at Geoffrey again and then, possibly because it wanted to, or perhaps because it was frightened, did a poo, followed by another one and another one before running off.1
Mice are like that. And all that Geoffrey was left with was a number of small dark droppings, which he scooped up. I wonder if mouse poo is as lucky as bird poo, he thought. I must ask Mister Twaddle.
‘I wouldn’t put that in your pocket if I were you, my dear,’ said a friendly voice behind him. ‘Let me see what I can find for you.’
He turned round to see a jolly plump woman, standing in front of the old range. ‘My name is Hartley,’ she said, handing him an empty matchbox, ‘and I’m the cook. After you’ve washed your hands really well I’ll cook you some breakfast. How would you like a nice boiled egg and toast soldiers?’
After breakfast, Geoffrey helped Plain Old Humphrey feed the chickens and collect the eggs. ‘Some of these eggs must be quite lucky,’ said Geoffrey. ‘They’ve got chicken poo stuck to them.’2
Plain Old Humphrey scratched his head. ‘Well, there’s no doubt that when bird poo lands on your head it brings good luck, but the bird’s got to choose, see. Poo may not always be lucky but it’s certainly useful. I use it in the garden. Look over here. I mix horse apples and straw in with the garden waste and that rots down to the best compost you will find. And the thing is, you’ll also find lots of worms there, who burrow away, pooing to their hearts’ content, which helps to break it up and make it good and fine.’3
Geoffrey went to put his hand into the smelly compost heap to find some worm poo. ‘No, don’t do that,’ said Plain Old Humphrey. ‘I’m sure I can find something that will make it easier for a likely young lad such as you to start his own poo collection.’
He went off to one of his sheds and Geoffrey heard a clattering and rattling and a nasty boingggg from within.4 Plain Old Humphrey emerged with a garden hose wrapped around him like a snake, which he finally managed to fight off and sling back into the shed. He disappeared again before returning moments later with a bucket and spade.
Taking the spade, Geoffrey carefully excavated a small hole at the bottom of the great heap and uncovered a tangled knot of wriggling pink worms. ‘What does worm poo look like?’ asked Geoffrey, bending down to get closer to the worms.
‘Well, it’s quite difficult to spot in there,’ said Plain Old Humphrey, ‘but see the little curly heaps of soil over here on the grass? That’s your worm poo, that is; it’s called worm casts.’ He brought out a cobwebby old jam jar and trowel for this delicate work, and with a bit of help, Geoffrey carefully transferred a sample of worm poo into the jar.
Meanwhile, Widdler was running in circles and barking at nothing in particular or anything in general. In the vegetable patch Geoffrey could see a large black cat digging a hole. ‘What’s that cat doing?’ he asked.
‘That dratted cat,’ said Plain Old Humphrey through gritted teeth, ‘is digging up my champion leeks again! I’ll swing for him, I will.’
‘Why is he digging?’
‘Because he’s doing a poo. And because cats is a bit particular. They like to bury it when they’re done, and because they’re a bit lazy, they like to bury it where I’ve already been digging.’ As the cat finished its business and stalked off, Geoffrey moved purposefully towards the spot, holding the bucket and spade. ‘I’d let that cool down a bit before you dig it up,’ warned Plain Old Humphrey. ‘Mark the place with a stick and collect it in a day or so. Pretty strong stuff your cat poo.5
‘Look, you must excuse me, lad, I need to pay a visit.’ Carefully lighting his pipe and picking up an old copy of the Almanak, Plain Old Humphrey made his way to his small personal privy between the compost heaps and the hedge. ‘Why don’t you take that puppy of yours for a walk in the park?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Please may I wait until you come out?’ asked Geoffrey, holding up his bucket.
‘No, you may not,’ replied Plain Old Humphrey firmly. ‘There are some things a chap needs to do without being under observation, especially by a small boy holding a bucket. Even if you can’t see him it tends to put you off your stride, so off you go.’
Geoffrey stood on a pile of old seed boxes and, holding Widdler in his arms, looked over the hedge and into the park. ‘Shall we go and explore, Widdler?’ he said. Widdler wagged his tail so hard with excitement that his whole body shook.
They crawled through a hole in the hedge together, ran across the grass and chased each other round and round in circles until Geoffrey fell over. Out of the corner of his eye and not far away he saw another dog stop, squat down and produce a small pile of poo before scuttling off. Geoffrey wished he’d brought his bucket, and was standing looking at the small brown heap, wondering how to get it home, when a voice asked: ‘Is that yours?’
‘No, I went before I came out,’ Geoffrey replied to the owner of the voice, a shabbily dressed urchin with a bucket in his hand.
The boy looked satisfied. ‘Well, it’s mine then.’
‘What? Are you a poo collector, too?’ asked Geoffrey excitedly.
‘I most certainly am! My name is Louis and I collect dog poo for Sir Harry King. He’ll pay me a penny a bucketful if it’s well stamped down. Extra too if it’s white dog poo – that’s the very best. We in the business call it
the “pure”.’
‘Is Sir Harry a collector?’ enquired Geoffrey with some interest.
‘No, he sells it to the tanning yards.’
‘Does he buy mouse poo?’ Geoffrey went on, fingering the matchbox in his pocket.
‘Don’t know,’ said Louis with a shrug of his shoulders, ‘but if there’s money in it Sir Harry King will collect it, trust me. He’s got a grand house down at the corner of Dimwell and Grunefair, but he doesn’t keep the poo there because Lady King won’t let him bring his work home. He collects all the poo in Ankh-Morpork and deposits it in big yards outside the City Gates.’
I’d very much like to meet Sir Harry, thought Geoffrey. He sounds like a very sensible person.
‘Right, I’m off to deliver this to Sir Harry’s yard now,’ Louis declared when the bucket was full and well stamped down.
‘Can I help you again tomorrow?’ asked Geoffrey.
Louis looked at him sideways. ‘Can’t afford to pay you,’ he said quickly, ‘but if you like I’m mostly here in the early mornings when people walk their dogs.
‘This is my patch!’ he added with pride. ‘I fought hard for this. You just ask the Mitchell brothers: they won’t try to take it over again, oh no, indeed. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, my friend, is the world of the pure, and even if I say it myself, I’m one of the best. Sometimes I’m there with my trowel before little Fido even knows he’s going to go.’ And with that, spotting a small straining figure across the park, the lad was away as if he had wings on his heels – although what was really on his heels was probably not wings …
Geoffrey and Widdler crawled back under the hedge into Grand-mama’s garden. Plain Old Humphrey didn’t seem to be around so they climbed the stairs to the top of the house with a short diversion on the first-floor landing where Geoffrey tried to look round the back of the suit of armour. When he got to the nursery he saw with dismay that his lucky poo was not on the windowsill where he’d left it, and neither were the scissors.
‘Oh no! I’ve been tidied,’ he cried. ‘Being tidied’ was something that occasionally happened at home, but since the time his most precious stick had been tidied away (leading to long and recriminatory searches in the rubbish bins), he was usually given a bit of warning.
He dashed down to the kitchen again, where Lily the maid was mopping the floor. ‘Have you seen my lucky poo?’ he asked frantically. ‘I left it on my windowsill with some scissors.’
‘Is that what it was?’ shrieked Lily. ‘That’s disgustin’, that is. I threw it out the window and thems was my best scissors, too. Don’t you go bringing any more dirt up into your bedroom, young man, or I’ll tell your granny. And what’s that on your shoe?’
Geoffrey went back outside hurriedly to find Plain Old Humphrey, who was wandering down the path with the look of a man whose world was now a more comfortable place. ‘Lily tidied out my lucky poo,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever be lucky enough to be chosen by a bird again.’
‘Never mind, my lad. Just you wander across the park to the pigeon loft in Dimwell Street, and stand around there for a minute or two. But here’s a tip: put a bit of cardboard on your head first, then you can bring it back nice and easy. And I’ve got an old shed I’m not using where you can keep it safe.’
‘Can I keep my mouse poo there as well? Could I make a poo museum? I think poo is very interesting and it is not nasty,’ he said, his face going red. ‘After all, without poo everybody would explode.’
‘Of course,’ said Plain Old Humphrey. ‘I shall ask Hartley if she’s got any more spare jam jars. I think they could be quite useful.’
At that point Geoffrey heard his Grand-mama calling from the house.
‘I think it’s time for your tea,’ said Plain Old Humphrey. ‘Better run along if I was you.’
Grand-mama met Geoffrey at the back door. ‘If you’d like to wipe your feet and wash your hands really well, Geoffrey, I think there might be cake for tea. But first tell me, what have you been doing today?’
‘Well, I’ve started a collection,’ he said breathlessly, ‘and Plain Old Humphrey said I could use his old shed for a museum, and he gave me a bucket and spade and a trowel for collecting. And I took Widdler to the park, but I forgot my bucket and we met a boy called Louis. He was collecting dog poo in a bucket for Sir Harry King and he said I could help him again tomorrow.’
‘He would be one of Sir Harry’s pureboys,’ interrupted Grand-mama. ‘It’s a very useful job. But what exactly are you collecting, Geoffrey?’
‘Oh, any poo at all,’ he said. ‘In fact I want to collect every sort of poo there is. Plain Old Humphrey says it can be very useful and it’s interesting and sometimes it can be lucky.’
‘Are you sure that’s what you want to do?’ asked Grand-mama. ‘Your cousin Robert collects stamps. I believe they are quite interesting and can sometimes be quite valuable.’
‘No, I think I’d rather collect poo,’ said Geoffrey without hesitation. ‘I don’t think anyone else in the world has a poo collection, so mine would be the first proper museum and I could charge people to come and see it.’6
Much to his surprise, his Grand-mama gave him a big, if rather strange smile. ‘You are a very original thinker, Geoffrey.’ She touched the pearl necklace strung around her neck. ‘Would it surprise you to learn that these very expensive pearls are the poo of oysters? Given your interesting predilection I shall think carefully about where would be the best places for us to visit while you are staying. Come and see me after breakfast tomorrow and I shall have a plan.’
1 Because mice are small they can squeeze in virtually anywhere and leave their poo around the house. However, they mostly take up residence in the kitchen and larder where food is stored and prepared. Mouse poo is about the same size and shape as a grain of rice but thankfully it’s much darker in colour so can be picked out, not just from carelessly stored rice, but also from bags of flour and other staples. Beware the short-sighted cook: not all the currants in the roly-poly pudding grew on a vine. And don’t ever eat black rice.
2 Hen eggs quite often have poo stuck to them as chickens are indifferent about where they poo. In the Agatean Empire the poo is carefully scraped off and turned into soup, but by and large it’s best to wash the poo off the egg just before you boil it, especially if, like some people, you use the same boiling water to make the tea.
3 The humble earthworm produces its own weight in poo every day. This amounts to about a gram, which might not seem much except that there are about 500 worms per square metre of earth. This means that over the course of a year, in one small flowerbed, they would produce over 180 kilos of poo. It is as well that the Howondaland elephant does not daily generate its own weight in poo or the whole world would quite soon be Howondaland. Worm poo is completely inoffensive and much prized by gardeners and you really wouldn’t know if you’d got it under your fingernails, as indeed most gardeners have. Some gardeners have it in their boots, too, especially when attempting that very tricky gardening manoeuvre known as the transmigration of soils.
4 By law a nasty boingggg must always be the last noise you hear when any humorous search is made in piles of junk. It’s the law; no one knows whose law it is but, nevertheless, it’s the law.
5 Cats are secretive animals and their poo is so offensive that even they don’t like the smell of it, and so they bury it. Cats also get terribly embarrassed if they know you are watching and will turn the other way.
Even witches, who can use most things in creating spells, draw the line at cat poo. The Ting-Tang-Bang cats of the Counterweight Continent are revered for the vicious nature of their poo, which is collected, carefully dried and then used to make fireworks; and with minute attention to the cats’ diet the most skilled practitioners can get you displays of vivid blue, which are notoriously hard to achieve in the field of feline pyrotechnics.
6 Sadly Geoffrey was wrong in assuming that his was the first poo museum on the Disc. In the Unseen University
there is a magnificent conundrum known as the Cabinet of Curiosities and no scholar has yet plumbed its limitless depths. It is believed to contain samples of poo from every living animal and insect in the multiverse including such exotic species as the phoenix, unicorn and quantum butterfly. However, scholars are confident that it lacks the poo of the rocking horse, which is thought to be rarer than anything known to humankind.
A VISIT TO THE DRAGON SANCTUARY
GEOFFREY WOKE UP excited. Today was the day that Emma, one of Grand-mama’s god-daughters, was going to take him to the dragon rescue centre and sanctuary. After breakfast, he put on his best jacket and stood in the hallway with Widdler, ready and waiting. Before long, his patience was rewarded when the bell rang. He opened the front door to a friendly and jolly girl who looked as if she ate hay and enjoyed a good run before breakfast.
‘Hello, Geoffrey. I’m Emma,’ she said in a booming voice. When he shook hands with her as he’d been taught to do, she gave him a grip he just knew would crack a walnut; he liked her immediately.
‘Now, Geoffrey,’ she continued, ‘your Grand-mama gave me five dollars so we could take a cab to Morphic Street. But it’s not far and if we walked instead we could buy some sweets on the way. What do you think?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Geoffrey enthusiastically, ‘I’d much prefer to walk. You never know what you might see.’
They set off along Nonesuch Street past some very grand houses and as Geoffrey was admiring them he saw what looked like two ugly stone animals perched on the edge of a roof.
‘What are those creatures doing up there?’ he asked Emma.
‘Oh, they’re just gargoyles,’ she said. ‘If you’ve got a very big house and a grand piano and a butler and a carriage with your name on it, the next thing is to hire a gargoyle to sit on the corner and make your house look even more important.’