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Having just completed my taxes for the year (woohoo small refund!) this lovely bit from Terry Pratchett comes to mind....
In the Dwarf Bread Museum, in Whirligig Alley, Mr Hopkinson the curator was somewhat excited. Apart from other considerations, he'd just been murdered. But at the moment he was choosing to consider this as an annoying background detail.
He'd been beaten to death with a loaf of bread. This is unlikely even in the worst of human bakeries, but dwarf bread has amazing properties as a weapon of offence. Dwarfs regard baking as part of the art of warfare. When they make rock cakes, no simile is intended.
'Look at this dent here,' said Hopkinson. 'It's quite ruined the crust!'
AND YOUR SKULL TOO, said Death.
'Oh, yes,' said Hopkinson, in the voice of one who regards skulls as ten a penny but is well aware of the rarity value of a good bread exhibit. 'But what was wrong with a simple cosh? Or even a hammer? I could have provided one if asked.'
Death, who was by nature an obsessive personality himself, realized that he was in the presence of a master. The late Mr Hopkinson had a squeaky voice and wore his spectacles on a length of black tape - his ghost now wore their spiritual counterpart - and these were always the signs of a mind that polished the undersides of furniture and stored paperclips by size.
'It really is too bad,' said Mr Hopkinson. 'And ungrateful, too, after the help I gave them with the oven. I really feel I shall have to complain.'
MR HOPKINSON, ARE YOU FULLY AWARE THAT YOU ARE DEAD?
'Dead?' trilled the curator. 'Oh, no. I can't possibly be dead. Not at the moment. It's simply not convenient. I haven't even catalogued the combat muffins.'
NEVERTHELESS.
'No, no. I'm sorry, but it just won't do. You will have to wait. I really cannot be bothered with that sort of nonsense.'
Death was nonplussed. Most people were, after the initial confusion, somewhat relieved when they died. A subconscious weight had been removed. The other cosmic shoe had dropped. The worst had happened and they could, metaphorically, get on with their lives. Few people treated it as a simple annoyance that might go away if you complained enough.
Mr Hopkinson's hand went through a tabletop. 'Oh.'
YOU SEE?
'This is most uncalled-for. Couldn't you have arranged a less awkward time?'
ONLY BY CONSULTATION WITH YOUR MURDERER.
'It all seems very badly organized. I wish to make a complaint. I pay my taxes, after all.'
I AM DEATH, NOT TAXES. I TURN UP ONLY ONCE.
In the Dwarf Bread Museum, in Whirligig Alley, Mr Hopkinson the curator was somewhat excited. Apart from other considerations, he'd just been murdered. But at the moment he was choosing to consider this as an annoying background detail.
He'd been beaten to death with a loaf of bread. This is unlikely even in the worst of human bakeries, but dwarf bread has amazing properties as a weapon of offence. Dwarfs regard baking as part of the art of warfare. When they make rock cakes, no simile is intended.
'Look at this dent here,' said Hopkinson. 'It's quite ruined the crust!'
AND YOUR SKULL TOO, said Death.
'Oh, yes,' said Hopkinson, in the voice of one who regards skulls as ten a penny but is well aware of the rarity value of a good bread exhibit. 'But what was wrong with a simple cosh? Or even a hammer? I could have provided one if asked.'
Death, who was by nature an obsessive personality himself, realized that he was in the presence of a master. The late Mr Hopkinson had a squeaky voice and wore his spectacles on a length of black tape - his ghost now wore their spiritual counterpart - and these were always the signs of a mind that polished the undersides of furniture and stored paperclips by size.
'It really is too bad,' said Mr Hopkinson. 'And ungrateful, too, after the help I gave them with the oven. I really feel I shall have to complain.'
MR HOPKINSON, ARE YOU FULLY AWARE THAT YOU ARE DEAD?
'Dead?' trilled the curator. 'Oh, no. I can't possibly be dead. Not at the moment. It's simply not convenient. I haven't even catalogued the combat muffins.'
NEVERTHELESS.
'No, no. I'm sorry, but it just won't do. You will have to wait. I really cannot be bothered with that sort of nonsense.'
Death was nonplussed. Most people were, after the initial confusion, somewhat relieved when they died. A subconscious weight had been removed. The other cosmic shoe had dropped. The worst had happened and they could, metaphorically, get on with their lives. Few people treated it as a simple annoyance that might go away if you complained enough.
Mr Hopkinson's hand went through a tabletop. 'Oh.'
YOU SEE?
'This is most uncalled-for. Couldn't you have arranged a less awkward time?'
ONLY BY CONSULTATION WITH YOUR MURDERER.
'It all seems very badly organized. I wish to make a complaint. I pay my taxes, after all.'
I AM DEATH, NOT TAXES. I TURN UP ONLY ONCE.
