Quote of the Day
For linguistic deprivation to look at all political, as opposed to purely accidental, requires more than that someone benefits from the bias thereby introduced. Deprivation in the political context implies that someone else is responsible for imposing the limitation, for withholding that those deprived are seen as lacking. Linguistic deprivation ( Read more... )
"Dear," he said, "what are you doing down here? I sent a message to the valet telling him to get you to safety! I came back as soon as I heard the news--"
"Safety?" She raised an eyebrow.
"There are ithings/i lurching around the house!" Rust said, waving his hands wildly. "Zombies! It's an absolute disgrace! Bad enough that they walk around like real people, but on this street? In Ankh?"
"Oh," she said, "you mean the protestors. Don't be silly, Ronald, they won't harm us. They're packing up anyway, I imagine, given that Sara and the others have gone for the evening."
He paused.
"Protestors?"
She tapped him lightly on the chin. "Yes, dear, protestors. I'm afraid one of the ladies made a rather unfortunate comment the other day, right in front of Lady Helga Ramkin-- a very respectable undead lady, as I'm sure you are aware, dear-- and Helga's feelings were rather badly hurt, and, well, what with one thing or another, dear, I'm afraid she ended up going to the amaaaaahkuhpuh."
"The what?" said Lord Rust, who was developing the bewildered expression of the thoroughly deared.
"I have no idea," Lady Rust said, "but they're the ones hanging about on the grounds, as I understand it. They rather disturbed our little get together, it is frankly impossible to organize Charity with a chant of 'No More Vitalist Privilege, No More Vitalist Puns' drifting in through the windows, speaking of which, I did ask that we get new curtains, thick ones, and now you see why, don't you? But otherwise I rather think they're harmless. Dear."
"Oh. Well. Well-- yes. But it's disgusting, even so. Vetinari ought not let it happen! In this city!"
"I quite agree, dear."
"...privilege, do you say?"
"Yes, dear."
"Damn."
"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. You know what the doctor said about healthy blood pressure."
"Yes. Yes. Of course."
"I think I'll retire now," she said.
"Of course. Good night," Rust said, sounding distinctly shaken.
"Just one more thing. Tell me," she said, delicately, "why on the Disc are you wearing that silly robe? I'm sure I told the valet to burn it."
His (moderately weak-chinned due to inbreeding, although it could have been much worse, all things considered(3)) jaw dropped a few horrified millimeters. Satisfied, Lady Rust patted him on his slack cheek and sailed away to her bed and the linked prospect of the evening toddy. She wouldn't enjoy it as much without the cushion that a proper night full of discreet drinking would have provided, of course, but that was hardly reason to indulge in unwarranted sobriety. She(4) always had had something of the martyr in her, after all.
(1) Mainly because it was broken once. By a Keel(2), coincidentally.
(2) Well, close enough.
(3) Consider the example of King Bob the Third of Genua, whose elevated person consisted of seventeen teeth on a bloody, membranous string thanks to a concentration of hereditary misfortunes
(4) Or, more accurately, her liver.
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