In the crowded main office of the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House, Sergeant Colon absent-mindedly adjusted the sprig of lilac that he'd stuck into his helmet like a plume.

“They go very strange, Nobby,” he said, leafing listlessly through the morning's paperwork. “It's a copper thing. Happened to me when I had kids. You get tough.”

“What do you mean, tough?” said Corporal Nobbs, possibly the best living demonstration that there was some smooth evolution between humans and animals.

“We-ell,” said Colon, leaning back in his chair. “It's like…well, when you're our age…” He looked at Nobby, and hesitated. Nobby had been giving his age as “probably 34” for years; the Nobbs family were not good at keeping count.

“I mean, when a man reaches…a certain age,” he tried again, “he knows the world is never going to be perfect. He's got used to it being a bit, a bit…”

“Manky?” Nobby suggested. Tucked behind his ear, in the place usually reserved for his cigarette, was another wilting lilac flower.

“Exactly,” said Colon. “Like, it's never going to be perfect, so you just do the best you can, right? But when there's a kid on the way, well, suddenly a man sees it different. He thinks: my kid's going to have to grow up in this mess. Time to clean it up. Time to make it a Better World. He gets a bit…keen. Full of ginger. When he hears about Stronginthearm it's going to be very hot around here for—'morning, Mister Vimes!”

“Talking about me, eh?” said Vimes, striding past them as they jerked to attention. He had not in fact heard any of the conversation, but Sergeant Colon's face could be read like a book and Vimes had learned it by heart years ago.

“Just wondering if the happy event—” Colon began, trailing after Vimes as he took the stairs two at a time.

“It hasn't,” said Vimes shortly. He pushed open the door to his office, “'morning, Carrot!”