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Vimes tried to make mental space for all of this, and failed. “I’ve got to get something inside me,” he said. “Some coffee or something. And then the world will somehow be better.”
“A doughnut as doughnutty as a doughnut made of flour, water, one large egg, sugar, a pinch of yeast, cinnamon to taste and a jam, jelly or rat filling depending on national or species preference, OK? Not as doughnutty as something in any way metaphorical. Just a doughnut. One doughnut.”
Personal isn’t the same as important.
What he did next would have surprised, say, a troll or a dwarf or anyone who didn’t know about the human mind’s reaction to stressful circumstances.
He wrote his report. He swept the main room’s floor; there was a rota, and it was his turn. He had a wash. He changed his shirt, and dressed the wound on his shoulder, and cleaned his armor, rubbing with wire wool and a graded series of cloths until he could, once again, see his face in it.
The Patrician’s smile remained, but his face seemed to pull away from it, leaving it stranded and all alone in the world.
