Discworld Convention Report The Second, and The Hunter

It is a fact self-evident that Stephen Briggs is the Patrician. Like
the chicken and egg conundrum we will probably never know which came
first (it was the egg, by the way), but Havelock Vetinari and Mr
Briggs are, and will always be, one and the same person.

This leads, at Convention times, to certain traditions. Being a keen
observer of people I tend to notice things, and it is hard not to
notice Stephen at a convention. Firstly he projects, purely through
his mannerisms, his expressions, his personality, the image of a man
who is supremely confident in whatever he does, because he knows that
he is always absolutely right. I really have no idea whether this is
Stephen or Havelock, but the effect causes the second reason Stephen
is easy to notice. He attracts Young Ladies like a Sun attracts
passing planets.

Last night, whilst sat in the bar area of the Convention hotel,
chatting with my friends, I noticed that Terry and Stephen, post Gala
Dinner, were sat at the table next to me. I usually try and avoid The
man With The Hat, because he has a lot of people trying to share his
time with him, he almost certainly has things to arrange and needs
time to think, and frankly I am probably likely to fall over my own
feet and then make bleating noises, because I admire the man, and I am
an idiot when confronted with the great and the good. However, we
stayed, and as the evening developed I noticed something that had me
chuckling quietly to myself.

Sat opposite Terry was Stephen. Sat beside Stephen were...numerous
Young Ladies. Sat behind Stephen were yet more Young Ladies. Sat in
front of Stephen, further Young Ladies.Within 40 minutes the table had
acquired a second ring of chairs, all occupied by Young Ladies. Then
another layer. Like Saturn, Stephen was developing orbital rings...it
was spectacular. A Young lady would wander past, heading Lord knows
where, and suddenly she'd return, chair in hand, and Stephen had
another orbiting Heavenly Body.

And this is the other thing. The bodies were, each and every one,
heavenly. There was far more exposed flesh on display, in brief
costumes, corsets, dresses, strapless evening gowns, gownless evening
straps, than is good for a man at gone midnight. I have a good working
knowledge of physics, and of the calculation of stresses on materials,
and for that matter the mathematical formulae for simple volume
calculations. It occurred to me, as one impressively corsetted bosom
heaved, that the mathematics of the acreage of bosom exposed in that
one area required fractal mathematics, and a total rewrite of the
Mandelbrot set. Quantum was the only thing between Stephen and a huge
Wardrobe Malfunction which would, at the very least, had someone's eye
out.

The second thing I noticed was a side-effect of the corsetry and
magnetism of Mr Briggs. Two waiters arrived at the table to clear the
inevitable glasses and bottles. They probably know as much about
Discworld and its attendant celebrities as I know about wombat
breeding. At the table was a man of immense charisma, and a huge
following. Clearly, therefore, this man was the Guest of Honour. As a
result they cleared the glasses and bottles, with difficulty, all the
time discussing the stunning collection of Bosom (River Deep, Mountain
High, as Terry himself described it) over the head of some balding
grey-haired chap with a beard, entirely unaware that they were
dripping second-hand lager down the neck of Mr Pratchett.

The Hunter