nientedal:

thebibliosphere:

thebibliosphere:

Because my head space is a mess right now I have found myself delving into my favorite idle pastime which is to think up Discworld headcanons.

Tonight’s current mental tangent, is that Cecil Wormsborough St. John “Nobby” Nobbs—probably human, look here see, he has it written on a piece of paper—and general miscreant of the Watch, is a Fun Uncle.

You know, the member of the family parents always vaguely dread showing up to formal family functions for fear of the example they might set to the children, while at the same time being fully ready and willing to keelhaul anyone else that says a bad word about them.

Nobby Nobbs is that person in the Ramkin-Vimes household. 

Because no one is going to tell me that Nobby Nobbs is not a regular feature in Young Sam’s life. For one thing he’s one of the few people Sam Vimes really trusts. Not with money of course, or anything of menial value like the candlesticks or the copper pipes in your walls. But when it comes to your life, to the people you love…

I have a whole host of antics and adventures that take place in my head concerning Nobby Nobbs and Young Sam Vimes, ranging from foiled kidnap attempts, to crackpot “we need a baby sitter and the only person we have is Nobby” to just plain shenanigans around the city. But they all start with a spoon.

Which is odd, Vimes thinks, because why on the gods green disc would someone gift them a spoon. And a tin one at that. They must have a million of the damn things rattling around the place. There’s entire cabinets in Ramkin manor dedicated to the sole purpose of housing superfluous cutlery, (mother of pearl grape scissors for instance, as well as what Wilikins assures him is an artichoke extractor, though just what an artichoke is and why it needs extracting, Vimes doesn’t know, and at this point is too afraid to ask) and most of it, quite gallingly, silver. 

And yet there it is, amidst the sea gifts sitting on the table in the Queasy Green drawing room, surrounded by white frills an disgustingly expensive gifts from Lord this and Lady whatsit—a solitary, dull (but upon further inspection) well made spoon, wrapped in an over abundance of purple ribbon. He picks it up, and turns it over. There’s a craftsman stamp on the back, indicating that it is genuine pewter from Überwald, which unlike the pewter made in Ankh-Morpork means there’s considerably less  chance of it dissolving in the 99% tanic acid solution that constitutes the average Ankh-Morporkian cup of tea. There’s a good weight to it too. Solid. The dull blue gray reassuringly real for a boy like Sam Vimes who grew up on Cockbill Street and now finds himself adrift in so much affluence it sometimes feels like he’s drowning. 

And then his mind turns to other things, wondering if it’s some sort of jab at him, a reminder of who he is and where he came from, that his son, his Sam, doesn’t deserve a silver spoon in his mouth. And he looks around the congregation, willing it to be real just for a moment so he can justify the deep unease in his bones at knowing he doesn’t belong here. Not in this world, in this room, with these people, with Sybil, with a son, with this pure joy in his heart so bright he worries it will burn him up…

“Cor, they don’t have lay it on thick, do they.”

He blinks, looking round to find Nobby attached to the

hors d’oeuvres table like a limpet in a shallow pool. He grinned up at Vimes, selecting a miniature pig in a duvet from his impressively piled plate, and chomping down with horrifying gusto. Fred was around somewhere too, likely talking the ear off anyone too horrified not to listen. 

“Nobby,” he greets, distractedly bouncing the spoon on the palm of his hand as he surveys the congregation around the room. He doesn’t mean to frown, but it’s automatic by this point, and several people retreat to the safety of the punch bowl, somehow feeling guilty for something, though for what they’re not quite sure.

“Nice turn out, for the little fella,” Nobby comments, coming to stand beside him at what passed for Nobby Nobbs in a relaxed slouch. “You must be made up, and no mistake, eh Mister Vimes?”

“Of what?”

“Eh?”

“Made up of what?”

“Aha,” Nobby grins, nudging him conspiratorially in the side, but given Nobby’s height, merely managing to slightly kneecap him. “Good one, Mister Vimes. Her Ladyship don’t look half pleased and all. Practically octarine, so she is.”

Vimes thinks about it, then says, “Do you mean radiant, Nobby?”

“Yea, that’s the one.”

Vimes shakes his head, but ultimately feels himself compelled to agree. There’s something magical about the way Sybil looks, encased in her own bubble of private contentment, enraptured by the swaddled blanket in her arms. When she looks up their eyes meet, and they share a moment of private quiet amidst the gaggle of well wishers and social climbers milling around them.

It’s broken by yet another friendly nudge to the upper thigh by Nobby.

“Oh, I see you found it then.” the Corporal says, this time biting into a miniature quiche, topped with a miniature sausage on a stick. “Do you know I had a devil of a time trying to get the bow on.”

“Found what?”

“Why the spoon of course,” Nobby says, as though it should be obvious, and Vimes heart momentarily shatters and re-mends under the weight of the realization that hits him. “Everyone needs their own spoon, Mister Vimes. We don’t know what tomorrow brings, but you can always have a spoon. ‘Ere, is there any mustard going?”

…it has just occurred to me, that the phrase “hope is a new spoon” is from Going Postal, not Night Watch…but part of me can’t help but feel it fits the narrative of street urchin Nobby Nobbs being given his own spoon by John Keel/Sam Vimes and deciding to try and become a watchman because of it. Not because they were inspiring or heroic and won against unassailable odds, but because someone was kind to him when they had no cause to be. And everyone needs a little kindness to get them through the darkness. Even if it’s just a spoon.

mY hEART