You know you read too much Discworld when...

You look strangely at friends when they offer you a jelly baby. You experience an urge to hunt down with pitchforks and flaming torches anyone who ends sentences in multiple exclamation marks. You see a poster advertising a film and you are surprised that it doesn’t mention Onne Thousande Elephants. You believe that thoughts are being inserted into your head by small grey mongrel dogs. You pass the town hall and look out for thieves being punished in the vicinity. Every time you have a cough sweet you think of Scully Maltoon’s mum. You deify people who let the grass grow under their feet. You sing along to your favourite tune with the words ‘Gold, gold, gold, gold…’ You puzzle your workmates by ringing in sick and telling them you have caught a walrus. You carry a small blue fluffy blanket with you, just in case. You idly wonder how many parrots they have providing the sound at your local cinema. You specify ‘no blood’ when you order a Bloody Mary. You start, putting commas in odd places in, your sentences. Your computer crashes and you try to feed it cheese. You carry round a stock of oranges to throw at people, just to make sure. Your friends wonder why, when blaspheming, you’re likely to be heard saying ‘Ye gods!’ You ask friends to show you their holiday iconographs when they return from a trip. You feel more relaxed in church when there is a female priest present. You eye anyone selling apples with caution. You have an odd aversion to strawberry yoghurt. The barman in your local pub is tired of telling you that they don’t sell Winkles’ Old Peculiar. You check the water for newts as part of your beauty régime. Startled Jehovah’s Witnesses at your door are rebuffed from behind the sofa with cries of ‘Go away, Washpot!’ You see someone wearing a diamond ring and wonder whose tooth it was. Visiting your attractive female hairdresser makes you unaccountably nervous. You roam around your university’s library, trying to find last Tuesday. You tell your friend you’ll c-mail him. Before doing anything difficult or dangerous, you say very loudly and clearly ‘It’s a million-to-one chance but it might just work.’ Your local newspaper receives a letter from you complaining about the blatantly vitalist nature of its obituaries section. In your will, you have left your money to yourself – just in case. Seeing a poorly-shaven man, you reach for the garlic. You never pat poodles. You always keep a wary eye on the sky when wearing red shoes. You go down into the basement and feel an urge to sing the hiho song. Back at your place, you offer your stupendously hunky date some fish heads and a saucer of milk. You refer to a less-than-bright acquaintance as ‘a bit of a Detritus’.