Erm. No. Not that sort of curtains at all, gentle readers. Drawing
room curtains. Possibly with dragons on.

I had to supervise a high school one-act festival all day today and
wrote this in the intervals, as a way to distract myself from the
temptation to strangle several people.

Enjoy.

Curtains
set just before Feet of Clay

And now he was on three meat meals a day, good boots, a warm bed at
night and, come to that, a wife too. Good old Sybil - although she did
tend to talk about curtains these days, but Sergeant Colon had said
this happened to wives and was a biological thing and perfectly normal.
- Feet of Clay

There were, as every lance-constable who took the shilling knew, Perks
that came with the job of Watchman. If you could call it a perk to risk
your neck for a city that could care less about you, then you were
happy; if you could call it a perk to be glared at by Stoneface Vimes
if you were unusually slow or stupid, then you were happy; but
everyone, no matter how masochistic, appreciated the universal perk of
a free coffee and maybe a hot meal, if you knew the right place to get
it.

Fred Colon was an old master at the meal-on-the-house, for any number
of reasons; possibly, it even had something to do with the fact that
anyone will feed a man who so obviously appreciated the food. A good
cook likes to be noticed.

Sam Vimes, on the other hand, rarely indulged. He could afford to pay,
after all - he drew a good salary as Watch Commander, and his wife had
more money than the gods*, according to Watch scuttlebutt.

So Vimes was paying for his meal, and because a man has /some/ pride,
Colon was mumping his, in Sham Harga's House of Ribs. They ate as a lot
of Watchmen did, in companionable silence, except for the clatter of
forks on plates and requests for the salt.

Colon sensed that his Commander had something he wanted to talk about,
but that it would come in its own time. He was rather glad he still had
Vimes' ear - with thirty or more officers in the Watch, including
Captain Carrot, Sam Vimes still came to him. So he ate his meal and
drank his coffee and waited for Vimes to work his way around to it.

"Fred," said Vimes slowly, chewing a bit of what he hoped was only
gristle, "I think I need your opinion on something."

"Oh yes?" Colon asked, looking over the edge of his coffee cup. Vimes
cleared his throat, uncomfortably.

"We've known each other, what, twenty-five years?"

"About that, I'd say." Colon chuckled. "Back before I joined up the
regiment, an' you was lance-constable."

"Yes, right. And you'd just married - "

"Oh aye," Colon said, happily ensconsed in memory lane. "Weren't you
courtin' a girl up in Cockbill? Near yer mum's?"

"Likely. Most lads had a girl in their street," Vimes said
thoughtfully. "It's on the subject I wanted to..." he cleared his
throat again. "That is to say, married life..."

"An' how's her Ladyship?" Colon asked, with what he probably thought
was a sly smile.

"Fine, I believe..." said Vimes. "Fred...you know I've never actually
/been/ married before, and you could be considered an authority on it.
Having been, er, married, previously, and presently."

Colon felt a dim horror creep over him. "Commander...ye're not...you
don't need - "

"Curtains," Vimes said wretchedly. Colon's horror faded, to be replaced
by confusion. "I mean, it's all she's talked about. For three days. And
of course, I...I don't particularly have strong feelings about
curtains, it's just - she's never much cared about what the place looks
like, which suits me fine. And now she does care. Er."

Colon nodded. "She's decoratin' and such? Tidying up the place?
Trimmin' hedges, buyin' carpet?"

Vimes' face flooded with relief. "Does your missus do this too?" he
asked.

"Not so much anymore, she got it out of her system when the children
were small. S'perfectly normal. Probably biological," Colon said,
with the air of an expert.

"But it happens? I mean, she's not going mad?"

"Well, not for a woman," Colon concluded. "Best to humor them, really."

The two exchanged the silent look of men who know, in their secret
hearts, that they will never, ever be masters in their own home. What
Colon called 'humoring them' was a concession to that fact.

"Look at the fabric samples, sort of thing," Vimes said, his tone
easier now.

"Don't let her get white," Colon advised. "Always goin' on about
fingerprints on the white drapes, if you do. An' I draw the line at
goin' along to pick 'em out. Tis not fitting for a man to decide how
his curtains hang. Goin' against nature, that."

"I think she wants a dragon pattern," Vimes mumbled.

"Bit mad for them, isn't she?"

"A bit," vimes said, with a smile. "I've asked her to bring back a
thimble when she goes to the Pseudopolis dragon show, for Mrs. Colon.
How's her collection?"

Fred Colon turned pink. "Got me buildin' a new cabinet for 'em," he
muttered.

"Speaking of building, I'd better hop," Vimes said, checking his
pocket-watch. "Must be there to meet the workmen. Roof blew off the
Dragon House again." He paused as he tossed down a few coins for the
meal. "Thanks, Fred," he said.

"Any time," Fred answered. "Remember, don't let 'er get white!"

Vimes waved a hand as he ducked out into the Ankh-Morpork evening.

"Thimbles!" he said to himself, grinning.

Inside, Fred Colon started on his mashed potatoes.

"Dragons," he said, shaking his head.

END

* At least, the minor gods. The major players probably didn't have as
much in liquid assets, but they had better real estate.