Good Omens

by Terry Pratchett

‘Listen,’ said Crowley desperately, ‘how many musicians do you think your side have got, eh? First grade, I mean.’ Aziraphale looked taken aback. ‘Well, I should think—’ he began. ‘Two,’ said Crowley. ‘Elgar and Liszt. That’s all. We’ve got the rest. Beethoven, Brahms, all the Bachs, Mozart, the lot. Can you imagine eternity with Elgar?’ Aziraphale shut his eyes. ‘All too easily,’ he groaned. ‘That’s it, then,’ said Crowley, with a gleam of triumph. He knew Aziraphale’s weak spot all right. ‘No more compact discs. No more Albert Hall. No more Proms. No more Glyndbourne. Just celestial harmonies all day long.’ ‘Ineffable,’ Aziraphale murmured. ‘Like eggs without salt, you said. Which reminds me. No salt, no eggs. No gravlax with dill sauce. No fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No Daily Telegraph crossword. No small antique shops. No bookshops, either. No interesting old editions. No—’ Crowley scraped the bottom of Aziraphale’s barrel of interests – ‘Regency silver snuffboxes …’ ‘But after we win life will be better!’ croaked the angel. ‘But it won’t be as interesting. Look, you know I’m right. You’d be as happy with a harp as I’d be with a pitchfork.’ ‘You know we don’t play harps.’ ‘And we don’t use pitchforks. I was being rhetorical.’