Hogfather

The late (or at least severely delayed) Bergholt Stuttley Johnson was generally recognized as the worst inventor in the world, yet in a very specialized sense. Merely bad inventors made things that failed to operate. He wasn’t among these small fry. Any fool could make something that did absolutely nothing when you pressed the button. He scorned such fumble-fingered amateurs. Everything he built worked. It just didn’t do what it said on the box. If you wanted a small ground-to-air missile, you asked Johnson to design an ornamental fountain. It amounted to pretty much the same thing. But this never discouraged him, or the morbid curiosity of his clients. Music, landscape gardening, architecture — there was no start to his talents.

Nevertheless, it was a little bit surprising to find that Bloody Stupid had turned to bathroom design. But, as Ridcully said, it was known that he had designed and built several large musical organs and, when you got right down to it, it was all just plumbing, wasn’t it?

The other wizards, who’d been there longer than the Archchancellor, took the view that if Bloody Stupid Johnson had built a fully functional bathroom he’d actually meant it to be something else.

‘Y’know, I’ve always felt that Mr Johnson was a much maligned man,’ said Ridcully, eventually.

‘Well, yes, of course he was,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes, clearly exasperated. ‘That’s like saying that jam attracts wasps, you see.’

‘Not everything he made worked badly,’ said Ridcully stoutly, flourishing his scrubbing brush. ‘Look at that thing they use down in the kitchens for peelin’ the potatoes, for example.’

‘Ah, you mean the thing with the brass plate on it saying “Improved Manicure Device”, Archchancellor?’

‘Listen, it’s just water,’ snapped Ridcully. ‘Even Johnson couldn’t do much harm with water. Modo, open the sluices!’

The rest of the wizards backed away as the gardener turned a couple of ornate brass wheels.

‘I’m fed up with groping around for the soap like you fellows!’ shouted the Archchancellor, as water gushed through hidden channels. ‘Hygiene. That’s the ticket!’

‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you,’ said the Dean, shutting the door.

‘Er, I still haven’t worked out where all the pipes lead, sir,’ Modo ventured.

‘We’ll find out, never you fear,’ said Ridcully happily. He removed his hat and put on a shower cap of his own design. In deference to his profession, it was pointy. He picked up a yellow rubber duck.

‘Man the pumps, Mr Modo. Or dwarf them, of course, in your case.’

‘Yes, Archchancellor.’

Modo hauled on a lever. The pipes started a hammering noise and steam leaked out of a few joints.

Ridcully took a last look around the bathroom.

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.