Nothing to it, really!

It's simple. You just need to fill in forms SMP (i) and SMP(ii) and then complete MATB1(b) in triplicate.

18 Spa Lane, Ankh.

Johanna rested her aching feet and sighed. Once upon a time it had all seemed so simple. Ponder had proposed to her in the aftermath of the Battle of the Tobacco Farm. (1) Of course she'd said "yes". Several hundred feet up on a magic carpet, there had been an aching, perfect, moment of romance. And besides, it was where they'd both been heading ever since the afternoon they'd first met in Hide Park.(2)

She had then, even more perfectly, been able to introduce him to her parents as her intended husband, and thanks to her friend Ruth N'Kweze, even had an engagement ring to show off. Her mother had shrieked with delight, wept with joy, and embraced Ponder to herself with complete and total acceptance. Her father had grunted in a very non-committal sort of a way. But thanks to her journalist cousin Suki van der Graaf, news of the battle and the defused border conflict had reached Home before she did. All the major newspapers were carrying stories. She had glimpsed the headlines on the front pages of the ones her father brandished under her nose, demanding to know what she called this then, hey? Don't you think we worry about you, girlie?

The bear-like Andreas Smith-Rhodes had then loomed over his prospective son-in-law.

"You were there too, boy?" he said, in heavily accented and unfamiliar Morporkian. He read out extracts from Suki's purple prose, about the brave wizard who had confronted a whole Matabeleian impi and sent fireball after fireball and spell after spell into their midst, before plunging into unarmed combat with a huge spear-carrying warrior, using his wizard's staff like a knobkerrie. Ponder winced, knowing the truth had been different. Far different.

Andreas, known as Barbarossa, had then glowered at Ponder from a far greater height.

"Were you frightened, boy?" he asked, in a softer voice. Ponder, who at that moment was utterly terrified, had decided truth was the only way forward.

"Yes, sir." he said. "Completely, totally, scared witless."

Barbarossa scrutinised him, then roared with laughter. He slapped Ponder hard on the shoulder.

"Man, we are all scared in bettle!" he said. "But you stood with my girl here. You did not ebendon her. You fought. You helped win. Welcome to my home, son-in-law!"

Then there had been an official reception for the victors of the Tobacco Fields. Suki's stories for home consumption had slanted it so that it had been a massive, telling, victory for Rimwards Howondaland, admittedly with a little assistance from Ankh-Morpork. Johanna and Ponder, who knew the truth was different, had then been subjected to a State Reception from the shrewd and elderly StaadtsPraesident. Along with her distant cousin Julian Smith-Rhodes and the surviving men he had commanded, awards had been conferred, and the thanks of a grateful nation bestowed upon them. Ponder, awarded the Howondaland Cross in Silver ("you're merrying one of our girls. Thet gives you citizenship of this country end a right to wear its medels, Gods know you deserve one!") had accepted with modest reticence. He had, she reflected, been happiest to spend most of a day in the Department of Magic and Wizardry at Witwatersrand University, passing on the fraternal best wishes of Unseen University and making professional contacts. (3)

Part of the gratitude expressed by her nation had been a large amount expressed in gold Burgerrands. Paid into her account at the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, it had enabled them to buy 18 Spa Lane with enough left over for furnishing the place.

A deciding factor in buying 18 Spa Lane had been the fact her Guild colleague Doctor Davinia Bellamy lived two doors down at Number Fourteen. The houses here weren't mansions like those on Scoone Avenue, nor did they have the same large rambling grounds, but they were big enough for a large family plus servants, and by the usual Ankh-Morporkian standard, the gardens were big. Johanna appreciated the space. She also appreciated Davinia being nearby. The two worked closely together in the Guild School and comprised its Department of Natural Sciences. Ponder just appreciated the idea of being on the other side of the river to Unseen University. Even Mustrum Ridcully would be hard-put to shout so loudly that Ponder could hear him at home.

The University Faculty had passed a change in Lore by a majority vote, to enshrine the new wisdom that Wizards could marry and continue in the Profession – provided that they had no more than seven children, are we making ourselves abundantly clear here and do we really need to spell it out?

A Conclave – effectively a referendum of all graduate wizards – had ratified the decision with something like a seventy per cent vote in favour. Older wizards who grumbled about diluting the magical flux, about contact with women rendering you no good for magic, and about it making hairs grow in the palms of your hands, were forced to realise that there were a far greater number of younger wizards around these days, who didn't see any reason why they should grow up into celibate, embittered, lonely old men.

And so Ponder and Johanna had married. Buggy Swires and Wee Mad Arthur had shyly said they wanted to offer a wedding gift of their own, lassie. What if we get some more of the Feegle, and we craw-step you all to Howondaland, spare you a five-week sea voyage? Lord Vetinari had at first demurred, wanting to use the craw-step selectively for the awe and consternation of other Discworld nations. Anything that got people anywhere inside half-an-hour, he argued, should be used sparingly and selectively. But he was prepared to make an exception, just this once. Provided you invite me. A pleasant afternoon and evening in a sunny clime would be a welcome break from business.

Vetinari had then spent a lot of the wedding reception in quiet discussion with people like the StaadtsPraesident and senior politicians such as Charles Smith-Rhodes, who was ostensibly on private business attending a family wedding. Indeed, the guest-list from Ankh-Morpork had ensured the kirk at Piemburg had not seen such a gathering as this in all its three hundred years.

She smiled at the memory. But then it was back to Ankh-Morpork and married life. Gillian Lansbury had taken over Raven House and moved into her old apartment there. Johanna had been genuinely sad to end that association and close that part of her life. A lot of the girls had wept too. But now she had her evenings free and didn't need to be a sort of surrogate mother to a lot of girls. No more dorm checks at midnight. A chance for unbroken sleep at nights. Visiting Gillian in the old apartment had been a wrench. It was now all tasteful watercolours on the wall. An artist's easel by the window. Paints and palletes. Reproductions of Old Masters. Gillian's pet cats. Reminders it wasn't hers any more. But Gillian gets the midnight dorm checks. And the nights when there's an emergency at one or two in the morning. Or if a girl absconds and ends up in the Master's Office, and he demands your presence at three am. Her problems now.

A different set of problems had begun for Johanna and needed resolving.

Joe "Lifer" Bushyhead stood the regulation three paces in front of Peter Bellamy in the Tanty's Life Prisoners' Wing corridor. There was a tense moment as Assistant Governor and a very big thickset convict with nothing to lose met each other's eyes. Then Bushyhead extended a hand.

"Mr Bellamy, sir, we're all made up for you and Mrs Bellamy, like."

They shook hands.

"Right, that." another con agreed.

"A proper lady, Mrs Bellamy." said another.

"Yes. Her flower arranging nights are fabulous!" agreed prisoner Gorgeous George.

There was a pause. George was an accepted part of the prison scene. You just needed to, you know, adjust.

"Another kiddie on the way, and that. I expect you'll be wanting a daughter, sir?" Bushyhead asked.

"Son or daughter. Daughter'd be nice, though." Peter said, accepting the good wishes. For a few moments officer and prisoners were all on the same side. Peter knew Davinia was well thought of by the cons. It made life a little easier. And he had no fears when she led her evening classes here. Assassin black spoke for itself.

Busheyhead coughed, slightly embarrassed, and produced something from behind his back. Peter normally tensed when a con did that. But with Joe…

He handed over an envelope.

"On behalf of the Guild of Lags and Lifers, Mr Bellamy, sir. Congratulations card, like. All the lads what are currently inside have signed it."

Aunt Friejda had swept in to inspect the new house and see everything was in order. Johanna liked her aunt. But she was wife to Rimwards Howondaland's Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork. And she had high expectations.

Uncle Pieter had slipped off somewhere, taking Ponder with him. From the clanking of ill-disguised bottles, Johanna guessed beer was to be drunk in some secluded wife-free space. She sighed.

"Everything needs a thorough clean, Johanna! And you could pay attention to a little redecoration in these reception rooms and corridors."

Johanna said something non-committal about finding the time. Aunt Friejda had frowned deeply.

"Get the servants to….." she paused. "Johanna. Something is telling me that you haven't engaged any servants yet?"

"Well…. no?"

She and Ponder had been coming home from work every night and cooking for themselves, enjoying the freedom and the newness of it all. A laundry service dealt with bedding and clothing. They had agreed the servant issue could wait.

"This will not do, Johanna!" her aunt barked.

And a day or so later, a group of black servants appeared on the doorstep, having been escorted by guards from the Embassy.

"Please, baas-lady." said the senior servant. "Baas-Lady Friejda, she send us. To be your house-servants."

Johanna turned to the guard who had escorted.

"Personally selected, ma'am!" he confirmed, handing over a letter. "On detached service! Orders of Her Ladyship."

Johanna winced. She realised she now had a domestic staff, whether she wanted one or not, nominally Embassy employees but detached to serve her household. Her uncle's note apologised for not having been able to prevent Friejda, she was determined Johanna should be able to live in comfort as befitted her social status, so could she, Johanna, put up with it for now? Also, these Embassy employees are on the following pay scale appropriate for black staff which sums up to this amount per month, if you can reimburse the Embassy at regular intervals.

Her aunt's rather longer note described the servants, their competences, and that they should be found rooms of some sort, ideally later on in a wholly separate building well away from the main house. She, Johanna, might wish to give some thought to this.

She breathed hard.

"Okay." she finally said to the submissive but expectant black faces. "Come on inside."

And thus the household acquired servants.

With full access to the Lapoignard cash assets, Emmanuelle had also been house-hunting. Maurice had accepted that the family needed a town house in the City, which in Emmanuelle's condition should be within reasonable proximity to the unparalleled maternity facilities at the Lady Sybil. She therefore had full access to the cash and a free hand.

Emmanuelle was learning a new Morporkian idiom. She had discovered that estate agent was Morporkian for unscrupulous greedy lying bastard. It was beginning to annoy her. She knew she still had a good six months before she had to hand over Black Widow House to a new Housemistress. The grace-and-favour apartment that went with it would also have to go and unless she did something about it now, when she had the time and the leisure, she would technically be homeless. At least Maurice had the money and could see the logic of a Lapoignard residence in the city. In extremis, she could use her own cash. Assassination was a well-paid career, after all, and a second career as a Gambler had augmented the pot. But now she finally had the family money, she was determined to spend a substantial slice of it, if only to spite the shade of her mother-in-law. And nobody could say it was not going to be invested wisely, in property.

But the properties she had been shown and the differences between what the estate agents described in their so-optimistic material, and what she actually saw… if she wasn't already somewhat cynical about the world, she could well become so after this experience.

She sighed, and addressed the ginger tea. At least the morning sickness had diminished as her body adjusted to the new demands being made on it. But she knew this was still only the beginning.

Her teaching assistants had worked with her in a class that morning. Both Gareth and Catherine had seen what she was refusing to accept, that as the shape of her body changed and her centre of balance shifted with her growing belly, the physical aspects of swordplay were becoming harder and harder. Her movements were just beginning to become clumsy and inelegant.

"Madame, perhaps the moment is approaching when you should retire from active participation in the lessons?" Gareth had suggested, with his usual tact and fine choice of words. Catherine had supported him, pointing out a single slip with a live blade could be dangerous, and more so as the child inside her grew with the months. And she had nurtured both her assistant teachers since they had come to her attention as exceptional students. They respected her and she trusted them.

She sighed again. The girls of Black Widow House were all excited by the pregnancy of their Housemistress. For some reason they were viewing the child as the Black Widow House Baby and were intensely supportive and even protective of her. Igorina had suggested this be encouraged and they were kept fully informed. It would educate them about pregnancy, and the less attractive aspects, if carefully managed, would act as a deterrent against them trying it for themselves. (4)

Well, at least when the time arrives I will not be short of potential babysitters. This may be no bad thing.

All she had to do was to train Antoinette to take over the House. She approved of the Black Council's choice of successor. Antoinette de Badin-Boucher had been an above-average student with many interesting and entertaining character quirks. She had stayed on after Graduation as a teaching assistant in the Quirmian department, and took a specialised module in La Quirmienne Comme Elle Se Parle À L'Acerie, Ehhh. Emmanuelle had been entranced by Quirmian as spoken in Aceria, recognisably her own native language yet full of its own little quirks and idioms. She suspected teaching Antoinette placed her in the same position as a Sto Kerrigian discovering how same-but-different the Howondalandian version of the language was: the same principle applied. (5) Time and distance changed the language spoken in a colony.

She was teaching Antoinette the formal duties and the informal skills to succeed as Housemistress, so that the succession would go without a hitch. Her understudy was a fast learner, and having been a boarding student, was well aware of the usual tricks and tests and pitfalls of the job. She had, after all, regularly absconded as a pupil. Now her role was to be poacher-turned-gamekeeper. And, if possible, to wean herself off excessive use of sacrées, which Emmanuelle had discovered was the extensive lexicon of swear words and demotic Quirmian expressions used exclusively in Aceria. Monsieur le Balouard winced at them. They amused Emmanuelle immensely. Swearing in metropolitan Quirm largely revolved around sexual and scatological terms, with a little bit drawn from religion. In Quirmian Aceria, the opposite applied. To Emmanuelle, the tabernac was merely a part of the temple where the priests stored holy items, les sacrements, for use in the service. To Antoinette, the words were explosive expletives for use on their own, or as modifiers in complex phrases denoting annoyance, frustration and irritation. Hearing her exclaim "Om, Astorie, et le Grand Dieu Offlère!" left the listener in no doubt whatsoever that Mlle de Badin-Boucher was extremely put out. (6) Merde was mere punctuation, by comparison. Or, as Antoinette spelt and pronounced the word, Marde.

This fascinated the girls, who listened intently and attempted to work the new words and phrases into their spoken Quirmian. Their teachers sought to discourage this. Parents expected their children at the School to learn unimpeachable metropolitan Quirmian in a good accent. Those who had looked up or asked the meaning of phrases like "Toton, j'vais te décalisser la yeule, calice!"(7) had gone on to complain to M. le Balouard, or other senior representatives of the School.

Emmanuelle felt, all things considered, that Black Widow House was being passed to a worthy successor. She had been Antoinette's house-teacher for seven years and had consequently had to deal with the fall-out. For instance, ice-skating in the Pork Futures Warehouse; Antoinette had very reasonably said it was a large flat empty space which had frozen over and was ideal for the purpose, her school did teach her how to pick locks and get in and out of places without leaving a trace; and perhaps the owners should rent it out for skating, they were missing a trick there? There had been informal lumberjacking for firewood during a very cold winter. The Watch had been puzzled to find only tree stumps where fine old trees should have been. That had taken some soothing over. And the business with maple syrup tapped from trees in Hide Park. Emmanuelle shook her head, amused. Antoinette had been an antidote to an otherwise potentially dull life. She thought of other memories, like the trouble Catherine Perry-Bowen had caused. (8) Catherine, too, had graduated and matured into a very capable teaching assistant. She felt proud of that. And, alors, it was all coming to its end. But they had been good years. She felt reconciled, if not ready, for motherhood. A good nanny, then a good governess, meant it did not need to occupy too much of her time after the confinement. She could get back in shape for swords, then.

She finished her tea, and steeled herself for renewed battle with the accursed lying merde of estate agency.

Things had settled down again at 18 Spa Lane. Johanna had conferred with Ponder, and the domestic staff had been housed in top-floor bedrooms. She now had to deal with staff management. Dorothea, an older Xhosa woman, was now the cook, treating the kitchen as her domain. The house-boy Simeon served as all-purpose worker and backroom boy, going where he was needed. An older man, Cyprian, worked as gardener, boiler-stoker and general porter. There was Claude, a dignified middle-aged man who served meals with quiet competent dignity. And she had two house-maids, Blessing and Eve.

Aunt Friejda had insisted she should have a lady's maid. This had fallen to Eve, by default. Johanna found this a mixed blessing. She also found it hard to explain to her friend Ruth N'Kweze when she called round.

"Well, at least you're paying them properly." Ruth had said, grudgingly.

It was true. Johanna had spoken to Ponder. They had agreed. Lional Keble had been consulted and asked what the appropriate pay-scales were for domestic staff in Ankh-Morpork. They had turned out to be a lot more than the Rimwards Howondaland government thought appropriate for black staff in domestic service.

"Noblesse oblige." Johanna had said. She had called the staff together, and explained that she intended to run a relaxed house where most of the time apartheid law would not apply. This required their co-operation. She would continue to reimburse the Embassy for their official pay. But she would also, informally, pay the difference between that and the accepted Ankh-Morpork rate. As long as they were working for her, in a foreign city where foreign law applied and there was no such thing as apartheid, this was only right and proper. But the Embassy must not know about this and it should remain our secret.

And if anyone official, or anyone from the Embassy comes here, apartheid law, regrettably, applies. She hoped they understood.

She had also asked for help in managing, if not a brigade of servants, then at least a half-platoon. Lady Sybil Ramkin had patted her hand reassuringly and sent Willikins round to assess and make reccomendations. The veteran butler had watched, then called the staff together and spoken firmly to each of them for as long as it took.

Johanna absented herself during his pep-talk. She caught the tail-end of words spoken to Claude.

"You're the nearest thing they've got to a butler, right? And I don't know what they teach you in Howondaland, but I'm telling you now that being of service is not to be confused with being servile. You can take pride in what you do and you are doing it out of free choice, not because you have been told to do it. You have got five other people to manage, right, and you report back to Mr and Mrs Stibbons. Don't forget they are new to this, and they are depending on you to make it work. Do not let them down. Come to me with any worries!"

Willikins had smiled reassuringly at her.

"I believe everything's straight and tidy now, ma'am." He said. "You have the makings of a good butler there, if I may say so. Signed him up into the Guild. We can get the bad habits out of him, and help make him better!"

Johanna was pleasantly surprised at how things improved after Willikins' intervention. And that she'd acquired an efficient and loyal domestic staff.

Apart, perhaps, from Eve. She suspected that freed from the petty tyranny of apartheid, the natural personalities of her staff were emerging. And Eve, whilst a good worker and attentive to her needs, was developing a rather snarky personality. (9) She suspected Ruth N'Kweze had been talking to her. Even though her house-staff were Xhosa and Bantu, from two tribes that treated Zulus with suspicion and a certain dislike, Ruth was not above trying to "raise their consciousness" about working as servants to whites. Ruth was always treated with pointedly correct service during her visits.

And then the clacks messages from the university began to arrive, couriered over by messengers who waited patiently for Ponder to compose a reply.

"He's not coping well, is he?" Ponder said, with sympathy.

"He's a bleddy nuisance." Johanna said, frankly. "Ponder, don't you dare go back to the University! You said yourself thet not living in the places we work would be good for both of us. Mr Ridcully is going to hev to learn to fend for himself, now you're only there for eight hours a day!"

But the messages kept coming.

Johanna sighed. She went to speak to Adora Belle Dearheart. Who recommended doing what she'd done herself at Scoone Avenue.

"Got some good people." she said, drily. "remember that business in Howondaland you helped sort out? You know the goblins there elected to stay on and see if they could make a go at it, they've started raising families now, built their own town? Well, some of them have come back. They'd jump at a chance to work for you. They think of you as one of their liberators. Interested?"

Johanna knew Adora was channelling a lot of her energy into goblin causes these days, as Golems became more and more self-reliant and didn't need her so much. Her passion for justice for golems had become, in equal measure, one of justice for goblins.

And 18 Spa Lane acquired a family of goblins, with Howondaland-born children, who lived in the cellar, created a network of climbing ladders inside a disused chimneystack, and built the clacks tower on the roof. 95% of the traffic was to and from the University.

And life settled down again.

Until Johanna went on a mission to the Neverglades Swamps and discovered she was expecting a baby.

Miss Maccalariat frowned, disapprovingly.

"Airmail is faster, you know." she said, angling her glasses so as to meet Johanna's eyes. "The Klatchian carpet service can have this letter in Howondaland inside three days. I really would have thought a young woman in your position, wanting to give the glad news to her own mother, would want the news there as quickly as possible!"

Johanna, who preferred the five-week surface mail option for this glad news, meekly insisted on surface mail postage. She knew her mother would be writing practically daily with reams of good advice to her pregnant oldest daughter. Her sister Agnetha, mother of five of her own so far, would also not be able to resist the temptation to send unwanted advice laced with sisterly snark of the "I bet you thought you'd got away with it, didn't you?" variety.

No, she wanted to delay this for as long as possible.

She held out against the Maccalariat, with an effort, and finally won surface mail postage. She could now appreciate why the Guild did not accept contracts on the Maccalariat family. Davinia had remarked that Dame Amorine Maccalariat, the Tanty's feared governor, had been unusually helpful to Peter and had offered her own support and comfort to Mrs Bellamy in the time of her need. Davinia was wondering how to turn it down, without giving offence.

And now she was sitting in her living room with aching feet. As she got more visibly pregnant, her balance was shifting and it was showing in her legs and feet. Johanna heard a tutting nose.

"This you need, baas-lady."

It was Eve. She knelt, lifted Johanna's legs, and removed her boots and socks, ignoring protest. A steaming bowl of hot water was pushed into place and her feet dropped into it.

"It's OK, Johanna. I told her to do it."

Johanna looked into the serious face of her younger sister Mariella, a pupil at the Guild school.

"Ja. Young Madam here was most insistent." Eve said. "I agree with her."

"You're in league." Johanna said. "Plotting."

"For your own good, baas-lady."

"And don't call me baas-lady." Johanna said. "Madam will do."

"As you wish, Madam." said Eve. Mariella knelt beside her.

"Barring accidents, you do know this is likely to happen to you too, one day?" Johanna said, sternly. Mariella smiled.

"I do. That's why I'm watching you now."

"I can send you back to the School." Johanna warned. "Being here in the evenings is a privilege."

"Did I tell you mother knows?" Mariella said, seemingly having not heard. Johanna winced.

"Who told her?" she demanded. "It wasn't you, was it?"

"Auntie Friejda mentioned it to her. Mother wrote to me. Airmail. She asked if I see you, and how you are." Mariella admitted. Johanna counted slowly to ten.

"I'd write back if I was you."

"errr. To know she does need. A right she has." Ponder said, in awkward Vondalaans. He'd been following the conversation as best he could. Johanna grudgingly admitted he was getting better at it.

"Get me pen and paper." Johanna said, sighing. "And an envelope."

(1) Another advert: see my story Bungle in the Jungle.

(2) Another advert. Refer to my story Nature Studies.

(3) Where he had discovered, by complete coincidence, the Director was a Professor van der Rintzwijnd.

(4) This was the Guild School's strategy concerning sex education – keep them sufficiently informed with as much carefully chosen detail as possible, so that they're both educated and scared off from trying it.

(5) new Sto Kerrigian pupils had been sent to Johanna Smith-Rhodes, on the grounds that Kerrigian and Vondalaans were mutually intelligible, if strange to each other's ears.

(6) Really true. Look up French-Canadian swearing sometime. It's almost unknown in France but use of such religious-derived terms is really shocking in Quebec. The French cliché of Sacre Bleu! starts you off, but Tabernak! is at the other, Richter scale 9.5, end of Francophonic swearing. Jésus, Marie, et Joseph! In Quebec is no, for instance, like an older Irish person would weight the phrase. It carries a lot more charge. I've substituted Discworld gods and personages.

(7) "You, sir/madam are a dolt and I intend to deliver a sound thrashing!" Insert English expletives of choice where appropriate.

(8) Yet another advert. See my story Nothing Like A New Pair of Eyes.

(9). Yes. That South African cartoon strip "Madam and Eve" again. Boer woman and a native maid who does not always behave with the correct degree of respect and servility. Couldn't resist it. Thanks again to Nimbus Llewellyn.