And much, much earlier than that, when the Discworld was formed, drifting onwards through space atop four elephants on the shell of the giant turtle, Great A'Tuin.
    Possibly, as it moves, it gets tangled like a blind man in a cobwebbed house in those highly specialised little space-time strands that that try to breed in every history they encounter, stretching them and breaking them and tugging them into new shapes.
    Or possibly not, of course. The philosopher Didactylos has summed up an alternative hypothesis as "Things just happen. What the hell."

No-one is more famous than Terry for overturning narrative convention, and never more so than when he deals with Death, who may be a reaper of sorts, but is seldom demonstrably grim.

Well, Terry now turns his attention to lampooning Christmas. AKA, Hogswatch, which is an insulting name all by itself. I find it entertaining, in a way, because of all the commercialisation of Christian holidays, the invention of "Santa Claus", a holdover from pagan days, even the day itself - Saturnalia in the old Roman calendar, a festival of plenty and uproarious drunkenness when slaves and their owners traded places for the night. The entire world was topsy-turvy. (The fact is that Jesus was probably born in July, when it is summer in the Northern Hemisphere - no Middle Eastern shepherd leaves his flocks out in the freezing cold of a winter's night in the middle of the desert, especially when the wind-chill is so high. They pen their flocks in caves, away from the elements, or the sheep die of exposure). Choosing to associate "Saturnalia" with the day of Christ's birth was Constantine's way of trying to integrate the Roman empire with Christianity, a religion which he saw as the perfect faith to unite all of the Roman peoples under him, the emperor. (Although he suppressed the actual Bible and locked it away from the public gaze, in case people mistook him for the Antichrist. Hmmmmmmm).

The Hogfather is drawn through the sky on a sleigh by four huge pigs, Snouter, Gouger, Biter and ...something. He gives presents to all the good little boys and girls, probably because lonely old men have nothing better to do with their time. But something is terribly wrong. The jolly old man in the red suit... is a skeleton with a tied-on beard and a pillow up under his vest. He is more likely to say COWER, BRIEF MORTAL than Ho Ho Ho. Well, he does manage the occasional jolly laugh, but in tones of funeral bells, which are unfortunately inappropriate. Has Death stolen Christmas... I mean Hogswatch?

    Albert unscrewed the top off a bottle of cold tea. All the sherry had made him thirsty.
    "Doing well, master," he repeated, taking a pull. "All the soot in the fireplace, the footprints, them swigged sherries, the sleigh tracks all over the roofs... it's got to work."
    YOU THINK SO?
    "Sure."
    AND I MADE SURE SOME OF THEM SAW ME. I KNOW IF THEY ARE PEEPING, Death added proudly.
    "Well done, sir."
    YES.
    "Though here's a tip, though. Just 'Ho. Ho. Ho,' will do. Don't say, 'Cower, brief mortals' unless you want them to grow up to be money-lenders or some such."
    HO. HO. HO.

... In a way. Death is moonlighting. He's not being very successful, but at least Albert has come along to try to give a hand - mostly with the consumption of merry Hogswatch food, and the ubiquitous alcohol. Death is being very conspicuous, actually, leaving dirty footprints on the carpet and crumbs around the tree. Cries of HO HO HO fill the air, which is more than a little creepy. But Santa Cla... I mean the Hogfather is missing - presumed, er, dead - but if Death can't find him... maybe Susan can.

Susan Sto Helit is ... not quite human. It comes of being on nodding terms with the Soul Cake Duck (yes, a dig at the Easter Bunny) and Jack Frost; of helping her "grandfather" to feed the Pale Horse. She has inherited some of the qualities, like walking through walls, moving outside time, and fading into the background. And the voice, the harmonics that compel obedience even from, yes, hippos. Don't ask.

    She stared at the tree. Tinsel had been twined around it, badly pasted-together decorations had been hung on it. And on top was the fairy made of –
    She crossed her arms, looked up at the ceiling, and sighed theatrically.
    "It's you, isn't it?" she said.
    SQUEAK?
    "Yes, it is. You're sticking out your arms like a scarecrow and you've stuck a little star on your scythe, haven't you...?"
    SQUEAK.
    "You're not fooling anyone."
    SQUEAK.
    "Get down from there this minute!"
    SQUEAK.
    And what did you do with the fairy?"

Well, Susan is also the daughter of the Duke of Sto Helit, and as a female member of the aristocracy was sent to the Young Girls Academy of Quirm, where she was Educated (as I've noted before, a terrible fate). Now she's a governess, a state viewed by most as a fill-in until she gets married, has a family and starts passing around the stirrup-cups and cucumber sandwiches. Waving to peasants may be involved. Susan finds herself in a state of rebellion - against her class, her sex, society, the undead and the unliving. She has her work cut out for her, fighting off all those Prohibitory Monsters that prowl the netherworlds of the nursery, the bibbity-bobbity-boo that goes bump in the night. These days, it goes bumpity bumpity SCREAM! AAARGH! SPLAT! CRASH! tinkletinkletinkle. Moan. She takes 'em out with pokers, large blunt instruments and, if all else fails, her own fists. I like this girl. Bogey men, imaginary bears, giant hairy spiders and anything else the parental mind may create steer clear of the house these days - unless they want their morphogenic field seriously and painfully rearranged. Of course, the children aren't allowed to be cute, or lisp cutely, or even - urk - blink winsomely. We all know what children are really like...

    "Who are you?"
    The pixie took the soggy cigarette end out of its mouth and leered at him.
    "Call me Uncle Heavy," he said.
    "You're not a pixie!"
    "Nah, I'm a fairy cobbler, mister."
    Behind Crumley, a voice said:
    AND WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR HOGSWATCH, SMALL HUMAN?
    Mr Crumley turned in horror.

Death sends the Death of Rats and Quoth the Raven (heehee) to fetch Susan, who, as a mortal, can intervene in the general run of things. Death has to follow the rules, even when the Auditors break them. No interference, whatsoever. Now it's up to Susan to find out what's going on. What happened to the Hogfather? Who is the almost-god of hangovers? And why is a sock-devouring monster living in Unseen University's giant washing machine? And ...Bloody Stupid Johnson's very own custom-made bathroom - is Ridcully really that stupid?!?

Brilliant, brilliant book. Susan has to save Hogswatch, while Death fills in for the Big Red Guy. Mayhem and madness ensue, and there is even a visit from Corporal Nobby Nobbs, which just goes to show that one can expect absolutely anything in a discworld book. Five thumbs up, meaning I had some help from the Librarian, only his fourth hand is busy holding the banana. You know how it is, us primates have to stick together....

    WHY ARE YOUR HANDS ON BITS OF STRING, CHILD?
    The child looked down the length of its arms to the dangling mittens affixed to its sleeves. It held them up for inspection.
    "Glubs," it said.
    I SEE. VERY PRACTICAL.
    "Are you weal?" said the bobble hat.
    WHAT DO YOU THINK?