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foot in the door as I tried to close it.
    “Prophecies, kind lady?” she asked as the other two cackled hideously.
    “I really don’t think so,” I answered, pushing her foot away, “perhaps another time.”
    “All hail, MsNext! Hail to thee, citizen of Swindon!”
    “Really, I’m sorry — and I’m out of change.”
    “All hail, MsNext, hail to thee, full Jurisfiction agent, thou shalt be!”
    “If you don’t go,” I began, starting to get annoyed, “I’ll—”
    “All hail, MsNext, thou shalt be Bellman thereafter!”
    “Sure I will. Go on, clear off, you imperfect speakers — bother someone else with your nonsense!”
    “A shilling!” said the first. “And we shall tell you more — or less, as you please.”
    I closed the door despite their grumbling and went back to my multiple choice. I’d only answered question forty-nine:
Which of the following is not a gerund
? when there was another knock at the door.
    “Blast!” I muttered, getting up and striking my ankle on the table leg. It was the three witches again.
    “I thought I told you—”
    “Sixpence, then,” said the chief hag, putting out a bony hand.
    “No,” I replied firmly, rubbing my ankle, “I
never
buy anything at the door.”
    They all started up then: “
Thrice to thine and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up—”
    I shut the door again. I wasn’t superstitious and had far more important things to worry about. I had just sat down again, sipped at my tea and answered the next question:
Who wrote
Toad of Toad Hall? when there was another rap at the door.
    “Right,” I said to myself, marching across the room, “I’ve had it with you three.”
    I pulled open the door and said, “Listen here, hag, I’m really not interested, nor ever will be in your . . . Oh.”
    I stared. Granny Next. If it had been Admiral Lord Nelson himself I don’t think I could have been more surprised.
    “Gran!?!” I exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”
    She was dressed in her usual outfit of spectacular blue gingham, from her dress to her overcoat and even her hat, shoes and bag.
    I hugged her. She smelt of Bodmin for Women. She hugged me in return in that sort of fragile way that very elderly people do. And she
was
elderly — 108, at the last count.
    “I have come to look after you, young Thursday,” she announced.
    “Er — thank you, Gran,” I replied, wondering quite how she had got here.
    “You’re going to have a baby and need attending to,” she added grandly. “My suitcase is on the jetty and you’re going to have to pay the taxi.”
    “Of course,” I muttered, going outside and finding a yellow TransGenre Taxi.
    “How much?” I asked the cabby.
    “Seventeen and six.”
    “Oh, yes?” I replied sarcastically. “Took the long way round?”
    “Trips to Horror, Bunyan and the Well cost double,” said the cabbie. “Pay up or I’ll make sure Jurisfiction hears about it. I had that Heathcliff in the back of my cab once.”
    “Really?” I replied, handing him a pound.
    He patted his pockets. “Sorry, have you got anything smaller? I don’t carry much change.”
    “Keep it,” I told him as his footnoterphone muttered something about a party of ten wanting to get out of Florence in
The Decameron
. I got a receipt and he melted from view. I picked up Gran’s suitcase and hauled it into the Sunderland.
    “This is ibb and obb,” I explained. “Generics billeted with me. The one on the left is ibb.”
    “I’m obb.”
    “Sorry.
That’s
ibb and
that’s
obb. This is my grandmother.”
    “Hello,” said Granny Next, gazing at my two houseguests.
    “You’re very old,” observed ibb.
    “One hundred and eight,” announced Gran proudly. “Do you two do anything but stare?”
    “Not really,” said ibb.
    “Plock,” said Pickwick, who had popped her head round the door, ruffled her feathers excitedly and rushed up to greet Gran, who always seemed to have a few spare marshmallows about