Sorry for the lack of updates-exams and writer's block I'm afraid.

Birdsong filtered into the cottage as dawn chased the night away. Vimes didn't trust any location in which the birds decided to serenade the new light. Any species with that much time on its hands had something to hide. In the city no birds sang in case a gargoyle wanted breakfast. Silence had become such a survival trait that most species had now perfected beak-syncing their songs.

'Fred?'

'Yessir?'

'Think you could arrest those damn pigeons? For noise pollution.'

Carrot, possibly the only morning-person of the Watch chipped in. 'They aren't pigeons. They're blackbirds. Listen to how they trill.'

Vimes and Angua rolled their eyes in unison. The whole Watch had slept downstairs, after Detritus had managed to destroy the upstairs, whilst ''aving a look for anyfing we can burn.'

'Whatever. Just someone get them to shut up.'

Angua nodded, slipped outdoors and growled, loudly. The sound of avian music was replaced with the sound of frantically flapping wings. Then all was quiet, except for the sound of Visit and Dorfl debating whether birds were: a) the creation of Om, b) the result of evolution or, when Vimes got involved, c) irritating little winged rats.

'What are we going to do now?' This was from Reg, who was patiently sewing a thumb back on.

Vimes scowled. 'We are going to act like a team.'

'And What Exactly Does That Entail?'

'Getting back to Ankh-Morpork.'

Colon brightened. 'The city?'

'Yes,' Vimes growled, 'the city. I don't know whose idea of management training this is but I'm not the management type. I'll just stick to the old-fashioned method of giving orders and watching them being ignored.'

'What About Vetinari?' Dorfl managed to bring Vimes' rant to a dismal conclusion. 'He Said We Have To Do This.'

Colon's face transformed with anxiety. 'He might get satirical, sir.'

Vimes swore loudly. It seemed he would have to sit this one out, even if it was just for a few more days.

Visit waved something under his nose. 'Half a dollar, please sir.'

Vimes glared. 'Are you seriously telling me you took all the trouble of getting the swear box off of Nobby and took it all the way out here in order to dissuade bad language? That's-'. Vimes stopped. He didn't want to be paying anymore into the large tin that would inevitably end up funding the Save-Corporal-Nobbs-From-His-Bar-Bill Trust. He altered his strategy. 'As your commander I forbid you from implementing an illegal fining system.'

Visit frowned. 'How is it illegal to improve your soul by discouraging swearing, which Om regards as-'

'You aren't being taxed on the earnings from the swear box,' Vimes interrupted.

Angua concentrated intently on the hole in the ceiling. She had heard of people going stir-crazy, but this was ridiculous. Vimes was married to the richest woman in Ankh, as well as having a very reasonable salary of his own. And he was quibbling over a half-dollar because, in this cottage, there was nothing else to do. Unless the urge to read religious leaflets, or watch Nobby, as the "alluring" Beti, dance gripped you, you had to make your own entertainment.

Nobby was getting irate again too. 'No one let me off, I pay hundreds into that stupid little swear box every year, and no one ever says "don't do it Nobby, they ain't putting it on the tax form." No, everyone uses the money to buy figgins, and then eat them all before I can get one.' At this point Nobby turned to Colon. 'I've seen you Fred, eating Figgins bought with my money, like there's no bakeries left in Ankh-Morpork. Never save any for your fellow traffic officer do you?'