She looked around at the kitchen. It needed sweeping. The washing‑up needed doing. The walls had grown grubby. There seemed to be so much to do that she couldn't bring herself to do any of it.

There was a honking far above, and a ragged V of geese sped over the clearing.

They were heading for warmer weather in places Granny Weatherwax had only heard about.

It was tempting.

The selection committee sat around the table in the office of Mr Seldom Bucket, the Opera House's new owner. He'd been joined by Salzella, the musical director, and Dr Undershaft, the chorus master.

'And so,' said Mr Bucket, 'we come to... let's see... yes, Christine... Marvellous stage presence, eh? Good figure, too.' He winked at Dr Undershaft.

'Yes. Very pretty,' said Dr Undershaft flatly. 'Can't sing, though.'

'What you artistic types don't realize is this is the Century of the Fruitbat,' said Bucket. 'Opera is a production, not just a lot of songs.'

'So you say. But...'

'The idea that a soprano should be fifteen acres of bosom in a horned helmet belongs to the past, like.'

Salzella and Undershaft exchanged glances. So he was going to be that kind of owner...

'Unfortunately,' said Salzella sourly, 'the idea that a soprano should have a reasonable singing voice does not belong to the past. She has a good figure, yes. She certainly has a... sparkle. But she can't sing.'

'You can train her, can't you?' said Bucket. 'A few years in the chorus...'

'Yes, maybe after a few years, if I persevere, she will be merely very bad,' said Undershaft.