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'They're not exactly the same as ordinary - '
'And there's men 'ere lookin',' said Granny. 'I think it's shameful!'
'What is?' said Nanny Ogg, coming up behind her.
'Magrat Garlick, standin' there bifurcated,' said Granny, sticking her nose in the air.
'Just so long as she got the young man's name and address,' said Nanny Ogg amiably.
'Nanny!' said Magrat.
'I think they look quite comfy,' Nanny went on. 'A bit baggy, though.'
'I don't 'old with it,' said Granny. 'Everyone can see her legs.'
'No they can't,' said Nanny. 'The reason being, the material is in the way.'
'Yes, but they can see where her legs are,' said Granny Weatherwax.
'That's silly. That's like saying everyone's naked under their clothes,' said Magrat.
'Magrat Garlick, may you be forgiven,' said Granny Weatherwax.
'Well, it's true!'
'I'm not,' said Granny flatly, 'I got three vests on.'
She looked Nanny up and down; Gytha Ogg, too, had made sartorial preparations for foreign parts. Granny Weatherwax could find little to disapprove of, although she made an effort.
'And will you look at your hat,' she mumbled. Nanny, who had known Esme Weatherwax for seventy years, merely grinned.
'All the go, ain't it?' she said. 'Made by Mr Vernissage over in Slice. It's got willow reinforcing all the way up to the point and eighteen pockets inside. Can stop a blow with a hammer, this hat. And how about these?'
Nanny raised the hem of her skirt. She was wearing new boots. As boots, Granny Weatherwax could find nothing to complain of in them. They were of proper witch construction, which is to say that a loaded cart could have run over them without causing a dent in the dense leather. As boots, the only thing wrong with them was the colour.
'Red?' said Granny. 'That's no colour for a witch's boots!'
'I likes 'em,' said Nanny.
Granny sniffed. 'You can please yourself, I'm sure,' she said. 'I'm sure in foreign parts they goes in for all sorts of outlandish things. But you know what they say about women who wear red boots.'
'Just so long as they also say they've got dry feet,' said Nanny cheerfully. She put her door key into Jason's hand.
'I'll write you letters if you promise to find someone to read them to you,' she said.
'Yes, mum. What about the cat, mum?' said Jason.
'Oh, Greebo's coming with us,' said Nanny Ogg.
'What? But he's a cat!' snapped Granny Weatherwax. 'You can't take cats with you! I'm not going travellin' with no cat! It's bad enough travellin' with trousers and provocative boots!'
'He'll miss his mummy if he's left behind, won't he,' crooned Nanny Ogg, picking up Greebo. He hung limply, like a bag of water gripped around the middle.
To Nanny Ogg Greebo was still the cute little kitten that chased balls of wool around the floor.
To the rest of the world he was an enormous tomcat, a parcel of incredibly indestructible life forces in a skin that looked less like a fur than a piece of bread that had been left in a damp place for a fortnight. Strangers often took pity on him because his ears were non-existent and his face looked as though a bear had camped on it. They could not know that this was because Greebo, as a matter of feline pride, would attempt to fight or rape absolutely anything, up to and including a four-horse logging wagon. Ferocious dogs would whine and hide under the stairs when Greebo sauntered down the street. Foxes kept away from the village. Wolves made a detour.
'He's an old softy really,' said Nanny.
