Fraulein Hübbeleiner

Fraulein Hübbeleiner

Fraulein Hübbeleiner did not exist,

until I made her up.

She lived in the mid-twentieth century,

in Verschadt-von-Krupp;

near to the border,

and next to the River Nachtsnapp –

Verschadt-von-Krupp has also just been created as a place for Fraulein Hübbeleiner to live in, and the River Nachtsnapp, too, is a fictional place that flows through Velstadt from Vieberg to Ümlaut. All of these places are fictional and bear no resemblance to other fictional places that you may come across in your literary travels.

However, even though I have made up the name of our protagonist and where she lived, it does not mean that someone like her didn’t live in a made-up place just like the one where all the action of this fictitious story takes place.

Fraulein Hübbeleiner was not christened with that name, obviously; and I shall here say that she was Fraulein Vonsel

Mardennel until the age of twenty-seven when she happened to bump into Herr Hubert Hübbeleiner in Pashden-vir-Donsck marketplace on an uncertain Thursday in June or July back in nineteen forty-seven, or the year after.

Love at first sight occurred on their third meeting, when Fraulein Vonsel and Herr Hubert exchanged some coy glances across the vast expanse of the old quarry-yard (disused) and their match was made.

After a whirlwind courtship they were married to each other in Ümlaut Church on the thirteenth of April, nineteen fifty-seven, or eight – the bride elegant in a pearl-white dress, the groom in his recently repaired mourning suit – the mismatching elbow patches being barely noticed by the congregation.

It was soon after the wedding that Hubert received his call-up papers for the war – the postal service being particularly slow in those parts – and Hubert set off for his basic training in Chromstadt.

Having survived the whole of this ‘after-war’ period with little in the way of injuries, Hubert returned home to his wife and three children – whose they were, nobody knew.

Dying at a tragically young age, Hubert has now left this story and won’t be heard of again – unless there is a need to pad out some back story with him later on.

Fraulein Hübbeleiner was sad to see him go. Yet soon turned her mind to the task with which her life had been blessed, or cursed.



“It’s Lemon Thyme!”

“It’s ‘Lemon Thyme!”

Citrus burst fits the rhyme,

as we all shout: “It’s ‘Lemon Thyme!”

Apeel and chime, do the crime;

as we are shouting, “Lemon Thyme!”

Sail upon the vitamin C,

Herbidacious, obviously,

“Free the Lemons, if they’ve done their time,

and we are shouting, “Lemon Thyme!”

Limoncello plays the tune,

werewolf howls at light of Moon,

flibberty-gibbet all too soon;

are deciphering an ancient tune,

to be played upon a big bassoon.

“It’s Lemon Thyme!”

My Response to Jane’s Response to Matt Harvey’s ‘Sit’ gig at Calstock Arts, Cornwall.

My Response to Jane’s Response to Matt Harvey’s ‘Sit’ gig at Calstock Arts, Cornwall.

Matt, I was at the same venue,

as Jane and you,

(Claudia didn’t hove into view)

but, Matt, you, alone,

seemed to atone

for never having seen me in the audience before,

and what’s more…

you’re a bright ‘un.

Your words were all

of a decipherable hue;

they spoke volumes

to me, to Jane,

to you, to me,

and back to you, again.

‘Not mere doggerel’,

Jane said.

‘The best of Bodmin More’,

was the only comment that came to my heed,

but I kept it there,

and, nodding –

like one of those dogs that you used to see on the parcel shelf of an old Moggy Minor –

I agreed.

“I’m a Saturday Saxon!” – a song

“I’m a Saturday Saxon!” – a song

I’m a Saturday Saxon,

I’ve got my Sunday shoes on;

I can hear a claxon,

and I can wear a blouson

(whatever that is, whatever that is!)

I’ve got my Tuesday socks on

play guitar like Graham Coxon

(No you don’t, no you don’t – you know you don’t)

GRAMS Song 2 Riff

(Lo-oe!, Lo-oe!)

(well, maybe just a little bit)

I’m a wackaday Saxon

(wax off, wax on, you’re a wacky Saxon).

I’m a Guacamole Saxon.

(wack-a-moley, wack-a-moley Saxon.

The Silly Season is upon us.

The Silly Season is upon us.

a Liskeard Writers Group 10-Minute Exercise – Prompt 2: Fallacy.

We renamed the seasons – they had been called the same names for so long; Spring became ‘Bounty’, Summer became ‘Heat’, Winter was renamed ‘Cold’, and Autumn became ‘Time of the dropping leaves from the trees when the Earth sighs with relief at the time of Harvest. The Americans decided that this was Fallacy.

We decided to rename America as The Land of the Giants, they renamed Britain as Limeland.

Everybody else looked on from the sidelines as the silly-season began.

We thought about that and made up a fifth season – Silly.

Well, you would – wouldn’t you?


Vivaldi the XVIIth re-imagined his great, great, great, great x 4’s grandfather’s classical interpretation of the four seasons, adding in the fifth fo comical effect.

SFX: Daaaaaa-diddlie-op-de-de


and on it went.


Further to this…

the classic Italian pizza, the Quattro Formaggio, now included Cheesecake as the fifth section – there was a reaction of disbelief at first, but it was surprisingly popular, astonishing the world with it’s combination of flavours.

So, at least some good had come out of the Silly Season.

“Man-Eating Seagull’s Ahead!!”

“Man-Eating Seagull’s Ahead!!”

10 Minute Assignment – Misspelt Signs

It said,

‘Caution Man-Eating Seagull’s Ahead!’

That couldn’t be right. I re-read the sign, its eight-inch high letters clearly stated,

‘Caution Man-Eating Seagull’s Ahead!!’

An incorrect apostrophe, and there were now ‘two’ exclamation marks after the word ‘Ahead’.

I looked beyond the sign. Nothing as far as I could see. I looked back over my shoulders, then above.

I made my decision based upon the literal idiocy of there being any such creature as a Man-Eating Seagull likely to be awaiting my entrance into a modern remake of Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’, and, anyway, everybody knows (or should know) that there are no such things as Seagulls – they are just one of the many types of gulls – herring, black back, horn-rimmed, and so on.

Fully confident in my decision to continue, I stride forward purposefully, and was slightly (okay, totally) oblivious to the large shadow being cast upon the ground by a winged creature that was nearing my exact latitude and longitude.

It was slightly after I clocked the shadow that I felt the purchase of taloned feet upon my shoulders, and the peck of a beak into my neck… and nothing much more after that.

After a while calm returned

The sign had resumed just the one exclamation mark, along with the continued aberrant apostrophe.

Prompt: William Blake Quotation

LWG prompt for 16-07-2019

Quote: “To see a world in a grain of sand

and a heaven in a wild flower,

hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.”

by William Blake

I read the words, the understanding of which was not immediately apparent to me. Nor did their meaning become any clearer within days, weeks, months, long years – decades even.

I hadn’t spent every second of that time thinking upon the quote from William Blake, that would have been a strange career; but, I did return to perusing their meaning every once in a long and wearisome while.

None of the actual words were a problem to me, it was just their combination together that caused the headaches,

‘that flesh is heir to- ‘tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d’,

as Hamlet once soliloquised.

Saying that, I really don’t know what it has to do with anything, never mind the aforementioned quotation.

And, saying that, a quotation is just that: something spoken once (or written down) and then discussed or argued over for years (Centuries even) to come.

I may have digressed – I do that. Sometimes, I just waffle on about something when I really should be focussed and keeping to the point of the whole contentious issue – such as that time when I was talking about the possible existence of life on Mars and then I rambled on about how the Marathon bar became the Snickers bar and how the Mars bar stayed the same – did you know that Wagon Wheels are exactly the same size as they used to be, even though popular opinion is that they were once larger, and are now smaller, than they were.

Returning to the William Blake quotation that I quoted earlier, if you remember – wasn’t it a corker? – I have to say that, if I had chosen a quote, I wouldn’t have chosen that one; but, as it ‘was’ chosen for me, I shall limit myself to commenting upon its merits, rather than discussing the dubious benefits of a different, and more popular quotation, that seems to be the wise thing to do at this moment in time, or ‘now’ as ‘this moment in time’ actually means.

Now, where was I?

Oh, yes. William Blake. 1757 to 1827 – approximately half an hour, to be imprecise, or seventy years in old money.

He wrote the quote. And was a bit of a pote, to boot.

He couldn’t give a hoot about owls; although he did consider the use of tea-towels to be a waste of new material – and so never ever mentioned them in his stand-up routines.

What he was saying in his quote – if you can still remember it – was that if you can, ‘see a world in a grain of sand’

and ‘a heaven in a wild flower,’

and, also ‘hold infinity in the palm of your hand’

along with ‘eternity in an hour.’

then that pretty much sums up the idea of something or other.

Which my saying of that should have helped you to understand the “interesting” quotation… as much as I do.



Well, to put it another way.

“To see a world in a grain of sand…”

Is to see great detail in a teensy-tiny, minute item – grain of sand, rice, split lentil or atom –

“… and a heaven in a wild flower,”

is to realise the wondrous beauty that there is in Nature.

“…hold infinity in the palm of your hand…”

is to see possibilities to the nth degree as available to you, for your perusal, at your leisure, so to speak.

“…and eternity in an hour.”

is saying that you can make a moment last a lifetime, and even beyond – in some cases, longer.

It is really no surprise that Stan from ‘On The Buses’ really hated Blakey.

And that vague 1970’s TV reference finishes my clear and well defined essay upon the words that which were given to us for us to do that which what where we would.

To be honest, I just can’t wait for the rest of the poem to be suggested as a prompt – and, BTW (by the way) can I just say here and now that I loved Blake’s 7 – his finest hour so far.