This has to be the 300th Discworld book, and Terry Pratchett is still managing to come at his creation from different angles. Moist von Lipwig was a conman on the top of his game, until he was caught by the Ankh-Morpork watch. Sentenced to hang, he is offered redemption by an angel, albeit an angel in the unlikely shape of tyrannical patrician Lord Vetinari. In return for his restored life, Moist is to become the new Postmaster of Ankh Morpork.

Of course, the Post Office isn’t in the best of conditions. The grand chandeliers have gone from the main office and every available spare space is filled with letters that were never delivered. And it’s been that way for over twenty years, ever since the workload became too much and they brought in Bloody Stupid Johnson and his Pie to speed up the sorting. As if that wasn’t enough, the clacks signalling system, the Post’s main competition, has been subject to an unfriendly, and very sneaky, takeover and will use any underhand means necessary to stay ahead.

Moist must enlist the help of golems, many strange postmen- including one young man raised by peas- and the Smoking Gnu in his quest to redeem himself and get out of town alive and, if possible, in profit. Along the way he shall discover the joy of pins, invent philately, deal with the Ghost in the Overhead and maybe get a date.

As with any Pratchett the joy is as much in getting there as arriving at the conclusion. He plays games with pop culture and history, has a dig at corporations and public utilities alike and throws in some simple silliness. Highly recommended, just like all the other Discworld books.

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