At this moment the pre-school staff sticks her head in the door, puts a bag on the counter and says 'I finally remembered to bring it.'
A hardcover book. Which will be the hardcover copy of Nation that her die-hard Pratchett fangirl of a daughter (has both the American and British editions of all his works) but naturally bought the minute it was out, and that I-- jokingly, truly-- had said So when's S gonna lend me her copy of the latest Pratchett?
At which point blue sky opens up to the west, I take the banshee into the naproom and baby-massage her till she falls whimpering asleep, give other blue-eyed whiner a bottle and she passes out on my shoulder (and both then sleep two hours plus.) The other short-notice replacement person appears so I can zoom home and wash; thinking I'll be late I arrive twenty minutes early at the dentist's; and the technician tells me my gums are in much much better shape, keep up the good work. My bank account has $200 more than I thought it did, my Hundred Demons 17 is in the mail, I have mooched two books and one of them is an unread Discworld, and all's well with the world.
The only problem is, when I get the bag home and open it, it's not Nation. It's Making Money. Latest Pratchett, last Pratchett. There's a difference, but only a fan would know.