[ooooh, nothing smells quite as good as this golden-brown basket of fried fish and poatoes. Rincewind's mouth splits into an anticipatory grin before he's even quite aware of it, eagerly going about unrolling silverware. Gods bless proper pub food.]

Airship? - Is that something like those planes they have here? [which still occupy a relatively high position in Rincewind's list of technology he plans to never try.]

That's a - mmm - fair point, though. [he licks a bit of seasoning off his fingers, his fish broken open to cool while he pops fries in his mouth. The extra basket of chips gets placed absentmindedly beneath the table; it won't last long.] Somewhat. I mean, you hope someone else can do the bloody job, but sometimes it does seem you're the only one left. Have you only had to save it the once?