He recalled his childhood, long ago, in the Ramtop Mountains. He and his sister used to leave a glass of wine and a cake out every Hogswatchnight for the Hogfather. Things had been different, then. He'd been a lot younger and hadn't known much and had probably been a lot happier.

For example, he hadn't known that he might one day be a wizard and join other wizards in leaving a glass of wine and a cake and a rather suspect chicken vol-au-vent and a paper party hat for...

... someone else.

There'd been Hogswatch parties, too, when he was a little boy. They'd always follow a certain pattern.

Just when all the children were nearly sick with excitement, one of the grown-ups would say, archly, "I think we're going to have a special visitor!" and, amazingly on cue, there'd be a suspicious ringing of hog bells outside the window and in would come...

... in would come...

The Bursar shook his head. Someone's granddad in false whiskers, of course. Some jolly old boy with a sack of toys, stamping the snow off his boots. Someone who gave you something.

Whereas tonight...

Of course, old Windle probably felt different about it. After one hundred and thirty years, death probably had a certain attraction. You probably became quite interested in finding out what happened next.

The Archchancellor's convoluted anecdote wound jerkily to its close. The assembled wizards laughed dutifully, and then tried to work out the joke.

The Bursar looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was now twenty minutes past nine.

Windle Poons made a speech. It was long and rambling and disjointed and went on about the good old days and he seemed to think that most of the people around him were people who had been, in fact, dead for about fifty years, but that didn't matter because you got into the habit of not listening to old Windle.