Guards! Guards! (Discworld, #8)

by Terry Pratchett

With the slightly miffed air of one who has run their finger along a daughter-in-law’s top shelf and found against all expectation that it is sparkling clean, the Grand Master got on with it.

It is difficult for an orangutan to stand to attention. Its body can master the general idea, but its skin can’t. The Librarian was doing his best, however, standing in a sort of respectful heap at the end of the line and maintaining the kind of complex salute you can only achieve with a four-foot arm. “’E’s plain clothes, ma’am,” said Nobby smartly. “Special Ape Services.”

“Ah, pageantry,” said the monarchist, pointing with his pipe. “Very important. Lots of spectacles.” “What, free?” said Throat. “We-ell, I think maybe you have to pay for the frames,” said the monarchist.

For a moment he stopped and looked down at his own sleeping body. Perhaps he wondered, briefly, whether to wake himself up, have a little chat, tell himself that he had friends and not to worry.

The rank surveyed their handiwork. “Right,” said Nobby. “Now, what are the chances of a man standing on one leg with his hat on backward and a handkerchief in his mouth hitting a dragon’s voonerables?”