...Granny Weatherwax, who had walked nightly without fear in the bandit-haunted forests of the mountains all her life in the certain knowledge that the darkness held nothing more terrible than she was...

Ain’t you scared?” she said. Granny cracked her knuckles. “No. But I hope it is.

Other people would probably say: I wasn’t myself. But Granny Weatherwax didn’t have anyone else to be.

I feel like a fish out of water.” Well, the way I see it, it’s up to you to make your own water,” said Nanny

The price for being the best is always…having to be the best. And you pays it, same as me.

She gave a deprecating little chuckle. And if Nanny Ogg had been listening, she would have resolved as follows: that no maddened cackle from Black Aliss of infamous memory, no evil little giggle from some crazed vampyre whose morals were worse than his spelling, no side-splitting guffaw from the most inventive torturer, was quite so unnerving as a happy little chuckle from a Granny Weatherwax about to do what’s best.

Walking purposefully, in the knowledge that no one with their sleeves rolled up who walks purposefully with a piece of paper held conspicuously in their hand is ever challenged, he set off across the wood and canvas wonderland of Interesting and Instructive Kinematography.