Pop art coltrane on rust

“Er ...” said Weaver. “Didn’t recognize you in your fly-ing hat, miss ...”
“I thought you were doing the Entertainment? What’s happened? Where is everyone? Where is my going-to-be-husband?”
“Er...”
Yes, it was “Miss!” said Weaver, his eyes full of pleading. “Don’t say
it! We heard ‘em go down the street. Dozens of ‘em. And
they’ve stolen old Thatcher’s cow and Skindle’s goat and
they broke down the door of—“
“Why’d you put a bowl of milk out?” Magrat demanded.probably the helmet. That’s what Magrat decided afterward. There are certain items, such as swords and wizards’ hats and crowns and rings, which pick up something of the nature of their owners. Queen Ynci had probably never sewn a tapestry in her life and undoubtedly had a temper shorter than a wet cowpat. It was better to think that something of her had rubbed off on the helmet and was being transmitted to Magrat like some kind of royal scalp disease. It was better to let Ynci take over.She grabbed Weaver by his collar.“If you say ‘Er’ one more time,” she said, “I’ll chop your ears off.”“Er . . . aargh ... I mean, miss . . . it’s the Lords and Ladies, miss!”“It really is the elves?”