Ole Brummer! 

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumoond 1998 

Hebb ik di endlich foot kregen! Heß mi ober ok piert! Dooglang geihst du mi al mit dien Gebrumm op de Nerven. Büß du dat egentlich alleen ween? Heß sachs dien ganse buckelige Verwandtschupp opropen mi to argern, mien Nervenkostüm möör to moken? Uteenanner kann en jo nich hooln, ji seet jo alltohoop liek ut.

Dat güng dien Dood vörrut:
Gans liek woneem ik wüür, du wüürst ok dor. Stünn ik an 'n Hierd, meuk di de Hitten un de Damp vun den Kookputt gor nix ut. Mit veel lutet, dumpet ,,SSSSSSSSSSSS'' neihst du mi öbern Kopp liekweg op den Kookputt dool. Ik dach al du wüürst rinseilt. Hebb mit den Klütensleef no di angelt, ober vergeevs, denn as ik noch an't Seuken wüür, seilst du mi al warrer boben Kopp. Nu harrs du di op dat Afwaschbecken sett, un wüürst dor an't Muffeln. Di smeck jo allns. Wat schull ik bloots moken? Müch dat Schöddeldook no di smieten, or gor mit den Klütensleef tohaun, ober dat harr jo Puttschörrn geben kunnt, leber nich. An de Kattennäpp harrs di gooddoon. As du satt wüürst, heß di ok noch frech putzt! Mit de Vörbeen öber de Snut, den Kopp un to'n Sluß heß ok noch de Flünken poleert. Heß mi ober een goden Tipp geben, warr in Tokunft ümmer glieks allns vörspeuln, dormit du di nich mihr an de Resten plegen kannst. Bi'n Middageten harrn wi Rooh vör di. Finster un Döör no'n Goorn wüürn open un de Lichtklocken ok. Kunnst sachs keen Toog af. Wenn dat so is, denn wüllt wi di wull looswarrn.

,,Nach dem Essen soll man ruhn oder tausend Schritte tun'', seggt uns een olet Seggwuurt. Na, ik bün slecht op de Feut, wat leeg mi wull neuger, as mi kommodig den no mien Meen verdeenten Middagssloop to gönnen. Lütt beten lesen, un denn noch so'n lütt beten druseln bet to Kaffeetiet harr ik mi vörnohm. Dat wüür een fromm'n Wunsch, harr ik di doch totol vergeten. Büß jo nu doot, sünst harr ik di giern de Froog stellt: ,,Wat heß du bloots an mi freten? Kunn keen poor Treed ohn' di moken''. Nu wüürst du ok in de Sloopstuuv togang'n un suust mit Gebrumm hin un her, mit Karacho gegen de Finsterschiev, ober ok dat harrs du öberstohn, heß di bloots schüddelt un heß wieder brummt, luter as vörher. Dorno landst du op mien rechten Arm. Mit links hebb ik tosloon. Hebb mi sülbst haut, di harr ik nich dropen. In'n Sturzfloog, mit Gebrumm as so'n Hubschruber büß pielliek in mien Hoor schoten. Warrer hebb ik tosloon un mi sülbst een an mien Dööts diest. To 'n Glück hebb ik keen Gall mihr, sünst wüür se öberlopen. Brummer, du driffst dat to wiet, du driffst mi ut de Puuk. Mit een fohlen Blatt bün ik achter di ranjoogt. Nu harr ik di an de grote brede Finsterschiev. Klatsch, klatsch, un bi dat drütte Toosloon harr ik di foot. Op de Finsterbank harr ik di breetsloon. Lebennig güng dat jo noch mit di, ober nu, so breetklatscht un de velen Eier ut dien Achtersteven hebbt mi anekelt. Gau weg dormit! Ober wat nu? Hebb ik di gor nich dropen? Dor suust du or dien Nofolger al warrer achter mi ran.

De Ploog mit de olen Brummers hebbt wi Winterdag nich. 

Darn Bluebottle! 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

At long last I got you! Boy, did you give me a hard time! For days you'd been going on my nerves with your buzzing. Was it only you, by the way? You probably called in your whole wretched clan just to pester me, to wear down my nerves. I can't tell you guys apart; you all look alike to me.

This is what preceded your demise:
No matter where I was, you were there too. When I was standing at the stove you weren't the least bit bothered by the heat and the steam from the pot. With much noisily buzzing "Sssssssss" you dashed from above my head straight down toward the pot. I thought you had flown inside. I fished for you with the spoon, to no avail, for as I was searching you were flying above my head again. Then you had flown onto the kitchen sink and were nibbling. You enjoyed eating anything, after all. What was I to do? I felt like throwing the dishrag at you or even to strike out with the stirring spoon. But that could have led to broken dishes. Better not. You had yourself some refreshments at the cats' bowls. When you had eaten your fill you groomed yourself provocatively! With your forelegs over your mouth, your head, and finally you also polished your wings. But you gave me a good tip. From now on I'll pre-rinse everything so you can't feast on the leftovers. You gave us a break during lunch. The window and the door to the garden were open, and so where the skylights. You probably couldn't stand the draft. If that is so, then I guess we'll be able to get rid of you.

"After eating take a rest or a thousand steps" is what the old [German] proverb tells us. Well, I don't get around too well anymore. So, logically I was going to permit myself a well-deserved midday nap. A little reading and then a bit of dozing until coffee time is what I decided to do. It was a naïve plan. I had totally forgotten about you. If you weren't dead now I'd love to ask you, "What on earth was it that made you pick on me? I couldn't take a couple of steps without you being around." Now you were doing your thing in the bedroom as well, were dashing back and forth, and with full force against the window pane. But you survived that too, just shook yourself and continued to buzz, louder than ever. After that you landed on my right arm. I gave a whack with my left hand but only hit myself. Taking a dive with a whirring sound like a chopper you shot straight into my hair. Again I lashed out and ended up whacking myself on the noggin. Fortunately I no longer have a gallbladder; otherwise it would have overflowed. Bluebottle, you were going too far; you were running me out of bed. I ran after you with a folded newspaper. Now I had you on the large, wide window pane. Smack, smack, and with the third hit I got you. I smashed you on the windowsill. It was bad enough with you alive, but now you disgusted me all smashed flat with a bunch of eggs coming out of your backside. Quickly away with it! But now what? There you or your successor go again after me.

One thing you can say for winter days is that we don't have trouble with those darn bluebottles then.

Olde brummer! 

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumaand 1998 

Hev ik dii endlich faatt kregen! Hest mii aver ouk piird! Daaglang gaist duu mii al mit diin gebrum op de nerfen. Buest duu dat eigentlich allein ween? Hest sachs diin gansse bukkelige ferwandschup op-roupen mii tou argern, miin nerfenkostuym moyr tou maken. Uutenanner kan ein jou nich holden; jii seit jaa altouhoup liik uut.

Dat gueng diin dood foer ruut:
Ganss liik wouneem ik woyr, duu woyrst ouk daar. Stuend ik an d'n heird, meuk dii de hitten un de damp fun d'n kaakput gaar niks uut. Mit feel lutet, dumpet ,,ssssssssss'' naist duu mii euver d'n kop liikweg op d'n kaakput daal. Ik dach al duu woyrst rin-saild. Hev mit d'n kluyten-sleiv naa dii angeld, aver fergeevs, den as ik noch an't soyken woyr sailst duu mii al warrer baven d'n kop. Nuu harst duu dii op dat afwaschbekken sett un woyrst daar an't muffeln. Dii smek jaa allens. Wat schul ik bloots maken? Muech dat schoeddeldouk naa dii smiten, or gaar mit d'n kluytensleiv tou-hauen. Aver dat har jaa put-schoerren geven kund. Leiver nich. An de kattennep harst dii goud doun. As duu sat woyrst, hest dii ouk noch frech putsd! Mit de foerbeinen euver de snuut, d'n kop un tou d'n sluss hest ouk noch de fluenken poleird. Hest mii aver 'n gouden tip geven. Ward in toukumft uemmer gliiks allens foer-spoylen daarmit duu dii nich meir an de resten plegen kanst. Bi d'n middag-eten harren wii rou foer dii. Finster un deur naa d'n gaarn woyren apen, un de lichtklokken ouk. Kunst sachs kein toug af. Wen dat soo is, den wuelt wii dii wul loos warden.

,,Nach dem Essen soll man ruhn oder tausend Schritte tun'', segt uns 'n oldet segwourd. Na, ik buen slecht op de foyt. Wat leeg mii wul noyger as mii kommodig d'n naa miin meinen ferdeinden middagsslaap tou goennen. Luet beten lesen, un den noch soo 'n luet beten druseln bet tou kaffeetiid har ik mii foer-namen. Dat woyr 'n frommen wunsch. Har ik dii doch totaal fergeten. Buest jaa nuu dood, suenst har ik dii geirn de fraag' steld: ,,Wat hest duu bloots an mii freten? Kun kein paar treed' aan dii maken''. Nuu woyrst duu ouk in de slaap-stuuv tou gangen un suust mit gebrum hin un her, mit karacho gegen de finsterschiiv'. Aver ouk dat harst duu euverstaan. Hest dii bloots schueddeld, un hest wider brumd, luter as foerher. Daarnaa landst duu op miin rechten arm. Mit links hev ik tou-slaan. Hev mii suelvst haut; dii har ik nich drapen. In d'n sturtsfloug, mit gebrum as soo 'n huubschruver buest piilliik in miin haar schaten. Warrer hev ik tou-slaan un mii suelvst ein an miin deuts diisd. Tou d'n gluek hev ik kein gal meir; suenst woyrd sei euver-loupen. Brummer, duu drivst dat tou wiid; duu drivst mii uut de puuk. Mit 'n folden blat buen ik achter dii ran-jaagd. Nuu har ik dii an de grote, breide finsterschiiv'. Klatsch, klatsch, un bii dat druette tou-slaan har ik dii faat. Op de finsterbank har ik dii breit-slaan. Lebennig gueng dat jaa noch mit dii, aver nuu, soo breit-klatschd un de felen aier uut diin achter-steven hevt mii an-ekeld. Gau weg daar mit! Aver wat nuu? Hev ik dii gaar nich drapen? Daar suust duu or diin naa-folger al warrer achter mii ran.

De plaag' mit de olden brummers hevt wii winterdaag' nich.

Darn Bluebottle! 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

At long last I got you! Boy, did you give me a hard time! For days you'd been going on my nerves with your buzzing. Was it only you, by the way? You probably called in your whole wretched clan just to pester me, to wear down my nerves. I can't tell you guys apart; you all look alike to me.

This is what preceded your demise:
No matter where I was, you were there too. When I was standing at the stove you weren't the least bit bothered by the heat and the steam from the pot. With much noisily buzzing "Sssssssss" you dashed from above my head straight down toward the pot. I thought you had flown inside. I fished for you with the spoon, to no avail, for as I was searching you were flying above my head again. Then you had flown onto the kitchen sink and were nibbling. You enjoyed eating anything, after all. What was I to do? I felt like throwing the dishrag at you or even to strike out with the stirring spoon. But that could have led to broken dishes. Better not. You had yourself some refreshments at the cats' bowls. When you had eaten your fill you groomed yourself provocatively! With your forelegs over your mouth, your head, and finally you also polished your wings. But you gave me a good tip. From now on I'll pre-rinse everything so you can't feast on the leftovers. You gave us a break during lunch. The window and the door to the garden were open, and so where the skylights. You probably couldn't stand the draft. If that is so, then I guess we'll be able to get rid of you.

"After eating take a rest or a thousand steps" is what the old [German] proverb tells us. Well, I don't get around too well anymore. So, logically I was going to permit myself a well-deserved midday nap. A little reading and then a bit of dozing until coffee time is what I decided to do. It was a naïve plan. I had totally forgotten about you. If you weren't dead now I'd love to ask you, "What on earth was it that made you pick on me? I couldn't take a couple of steps without you being around." Now you were doing your thing in the bedroom as well, were dashing back and forth, and with full force against the window pane. But you survived that too, just shook yourself and continued to buzz, louder than ever. After that you landed on my right arm. I gave a whack with my left hand but only hit myself. Taking a dive with a whirring sound like a chopper you shot straight into my hair. Again I lashed out and ended up whacking myself on the noggin. Fortunately I no longer have a gallbladder; otherwise it would have overflowed. Bluebottle, you were going too far; you were running me out of bed. I ran after you with a folded newspaper. Now I had you on the large, wide window pane. Smack, smack, and with the third hit I got you. I smashed you on the windowsill. It was bad enough with you alive, but now you disgusted me all smashed flat with a bunch of eggs coming out of your backside. Quickly away with it! But now what? There you or your successor go again after me.

One thing you can say for winter days is that we don't have trouble with those darn bluebottles then.

Ole Brummer! 

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumoond 1998 

Hebb ik di endlich foot kregen! Heß mi ober ok piert! Dooglang geihst du mi al mit dien Gebrumm op de Nerven. Büß du dat egentlich alleen ween? Heß sachs dien ganse buckelige Verwandtschupp opropen mi to argern, mien Nervenkostüm möör to moken? Uteenanner kann en jo nich hooln, ji seet jo alltohoop liek ut.

Dat güng dien Dood vörrut:
Gans liek woneem ik wüür, du wüürst ok dor. Stünn ik an 'n Hierd, meuk di de Hitten un de Damp vun den Kookputt gor nix ut. Mit veel lutet, dumpet ,,SSSSSSSSSSSS'' neihst du mi öbern Kopp liekweg op den Kookputt dool. Ik dach al du wüürst rinseilt. Hebb mit den Klütensleef no di angelt, ober vergeevs, denn as ik noch an't Seuken wüür, seilst du mi al warrer boben Kopp. Nu harrs du di op dat Afwaschbecken sett, un wüürst dor an't Muffeln. Di smeck jo allns. Wat schull ik bloots moken? Müch dat Schöddeldook no di smieten, or gor mit den Klütensleef tohaun, ober dat harr jo Puttschörrn geben kunnt, leber nich. An de Kattennäpp harrs di gooddoon. As du satt wüürst, heß di ok noch frech putzt! Mit de Vörbeen öber de Snut, den Kopp un to'n Sluß heß ok noch de Flünken poleert. Heß mi ober een goden Tipp geben, warr in Tokunft ümmer glieks allns vörspeuln, dormit du di nich mihr an de Resten plegen kannst. Bi'n Middageten harrn wi Rooh vör di. Finster un Döör no'n Goorn wüürn open un de Lichtklocken ok. Kunnst sachs keen Toog af. Wenn dat so is, denn wüllt wi di wull looswarrn.

,,Nach dem Essen soll man ruhn oder tausend Schritte tun'', seggt uns een olet Seggwuurt. Na, ik bün slecht op de Feut, wat leeg mi wull neuger, as mi kommodig den no mien Meen verdeenten Middagssloop to gönnen. Lütt beten lesen, un denn noch so'n lütt beten druseln bet to Kaffeetiet harr ik mi vörnohm. Dat wüür een fromm'n Wunsch, harr ik di doch totol vergeten. Büß jo nu doot, sünst harr ik di giern de Froog stellt: ,,Wat heß du bloots an mi freten? Kunn keen poor Treed ohn' di moken''. Nu wüürst du ok in de Sloopstuuv togang'n un suust mit Gebrumm hin un her, mit Karacho gegen de Finsterschiev, ober ok dat harrs du öberstohn, heß di bloots schüddelt un heß wieder brummt, luter as vörher. Dorno landst du op mien rechten Arm. Mit links hebb ik tosloon. Hebb mi sülbst haut, di harr ik nich dropen. In'n Sturzfloog, mit Gebrumm as so'n Hubschruber büß pielliek in mien Hoor schoten. Warrer hebb ik tosloon un mi sülbst een an mien Dööts diest. To 'n Glück hebb ik keen Gall mihr, sünst wüür se öberlopen. Brummer, du driffst dat to wiet, du driffst mi ut de Puuk. Mit een fohlen Blatt bün ik achter di ranjoogt. Nu harr ik di an de grote brede Finsterschiev. Klatsch, klatsch, un bi dat drütte Toosloon harr ik di foot. Op de Finsterbank harr ik di breetsloon. Lebennig güng dat jo noch mit di, ober nu, so breetklatscht un de velen Eier ut dien Achtersteven hebbt mi anekelt. Gau weg dormit! Ober wat nu? Hebb ik di gor nich dropen? Dor suust du or dien Nofolger al warrer achter mi ran.

De Ploog mit de olen Brummers hebbt wi Winterdag nich. 

Darn Bluebottle! 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

At long last I got you! Boy, did you give me a hard time! For days you'd been going on my nerves with your buzzing. Was it only you, by the way? You probably called in your whole wretched clan just to pester me, to wear down my nerves. I can't tell you guys apart; you all look alike to me.

This is what preceded your demise:
No matter where I was, you were there too. When I was standing at the stove you weren't the least bit bothered by the heat and the steam from the pot. With much noisily buzzing "Sssssssss" you dashed from above my head straight down toward the pot. I thought you had flown inside. I fished for you with the spoon, to no avail, for as I was searching you were flying above my head again. Then you had flown onto the kitchen sink and were nibbling. You enjoyed eating anything, after all. What was I to do? I felt like throwing the dishrag at you or even to strike out with the stirring spoon. But that could have led to broken dishes. Better not. You had yourself some refreshments at the cats' bowls. When you had eaten your fill you groomed yourself provocatively! With your forelegs over your mouth, your head, and finally you also polished your wings. But you gave me a good tip. From now on I'll pre-rinse everything so you can't feast on the leftovers. You gave us a break during lunch. The window and the door to the garden were open, and so where the skylights. You probably couldn't stand the draft. If that is so, then I guess we'll be able to get rid of you.

"After eating take a rest or a thousand steps" is what the old [German] proverb tells us. Well, I don't get around too well anymore. So, logically I was going to permit myself a well-deserved midday nap. A little reading and then a bit of dozing until coffee time is what I decided to do. It was a naïve plan. I had totally forgotten about you. If you weren't dead now I'd love to ask you, "What on earth was it that made you pick on me? I couldn't take a couple of steps without you being around." Now you were doing your thing in the bedroom as well, were dashing back and forth, and with full force against the window pane. But you survived that too, just shook yourself and continued to buzz, louder than ever. After that you landed on my right arm. I gave a whack with my left hand but only hit myself. Taking a dive with a whirring sound like a chopper you shot straight into my hair. Again I lashed out and ended up whacking myself on the noggin. Fortunately I no longer have a gallbladder; otherwise it would have overflowed. Bluebottle, you were going too far; you were running me out of bed. I ran after you with a folded newspaper. Now I had you on the large, wide window pane. Smack, smack, and with the third hit I got you. I smashed you on the windowsill. It was bad enough with you alive, but now you disgusted me all smashed flat with a bunch of eggs coming out of your backside. Quickly away with it! But now what? There you or your successor go again after me.

One thing you can say for winter days is that we don't have trouble with those darn bluebottles then.

Olde brummer! 

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
Haumaand 1998 

Hev ik dii endlich faatt kregen! Hest mii aver ouk piird! Daaglang gaist duu mii al mit diin gebrum op de nerfen. Buest duu dat eigentlich allein ween? Hest sachs diin gansse bukkelige ferwandschup op-roupen mii tou argern, miin nerfenkostuym moyr tou maken. Uutenanner kan ein jou nich holden; jii seit jaa altouhoup liik uut.

Dat gueng diin dood foer ruut:
Ganss liik wouneem ik woyr, duu woyrst ouk daar. Stuend ik an d'n heird, meuk dii de hitten un de damp fun d'n kaakput gaar niks uut. Mit feel lutet, dumpet ,,ssssssssss'' naist duu mii euver d'n kop liikweg op d'n kaakput daal. Ik dach al duu woyrst rin-saild. Hev mit d'n kluyten-sleiv naa dii angeld, aver fergeevs, den as ik noch an't soyken woyr sailst duu mii al warrer baven d'n kop. Nuu harst duu dii op dat afwaschbekken sett un woyrst daar an't muffeln. Dii smek jaa allens. Wat schul ik bloots maken? Muech dat schoeddeldouk naa dii smiten, or gaar mit d'n kluytensleiv tou-hauen. Aver dat har jaa put-schoerren geven kund. Leiver nich. An de kattennep harst dii goud doun. As duu sat woyrst, hest dii ouk noch frech putsd! Mit de foerbeinen euver de snuut, d'n kop un tou d'n sluss hest ouk noch de fluenken poleird. Hest mii aver 'n gouden tip geven. Ward in toukumft uemmer gliiks allens foer-spoylen daarmit duu dii nich meir an de resten plegen kanst. Bi d'n middag-eten harren wii rou foer dii. Finster un deur naa d'n gaarn woyren apen, un de lichtklokken ouk. Kunst sachs kein toug af. Wen dat soo is, den wuelt wii dii wul loos warden.

,,Nach dem Essen soll man ruhn oder tausend Schritte tun'', segt uns 'n oldet segwourd. Na, ik buen slecht op de foyt. Wat leeg mii wul noyger as mii kommodig d'n naa miin meinen ferdeinden middagsslaap tou goennen. Luet beten lesen, un den noch soo 'n luet beten druseln bet tou kaffeetiid har ik mii foer-namen. Dat woyr 'n frommen wunsch. Har ik dii doch totaal fergeten. Buest jaa nuu dood, suenst har ik dii geirn de fraag' steld: ,,Wat hest duu bloots an mii freten? Kun kein paar treed' aan dii maken''. Nuu woyrst duu ouk in de slaap-stuuv tou gangen un suust mit gebrum hin un her, mit karacho gegen de finsterschiiv'. Aver ouk dat harst duu euverstaan. Hest dii bloots schueddeld, un hest wider brumd, luter as foerher. Daarnaa landst duu op miin rechten arm. Mit links hev ik tou-slaan. Hev mii suelvst haut; dii har ik nich drapen. In d'n sturtsfloug, mit gebrum as soo 'n huubschruver buest piilliik in miin haar schaten. Warrer hev ik tou-slaan un mii suelvst ein an miin deuts diisd. Tou d'n gluek hev ik kein gal meir; suenst woyrd sei euver-loupen. Brummer, duu drivst dat tou wiid; duu drivst mii uut de puuk. Mit 'n folden blat buen ik achter dii ran-jaagd. Nuu har ik dii an de grote, breide finsterschiiv'. Klatsch, klatsch, un bii dat druette tou-slaan har ik dii faat. Op de finsterbank har ik dii breit-slaan. Lebennig gueng dat jaa noch mit dii, aver nuu, soo breit-klatschd un de felen aier uut diin achter-steven hevt mii an-ekeld. Gau weg daar mit! Aver wat nuu? Hev ik dii gaar nich drapen? Daar suust duu or diin naa-folger al warrer achter mii ran.

De plaag' mit de olden brummers hevt wii winterdaag' nich.

Darn Bluebottle! 

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal  
July 1998 

At long last I got you! Boy, did you give me a hard time! For days you'd been going on my nerves with your buzzing. Was it only you, by the way? You probably called in your whole wretched clan just to pester me, to wear down my nerves. I can't tell you guys apart; you all look alike to me.

This is what preceded your demise:
No matter where I was, you were there too. When I was standing at the stove you weren't the least bit bothered by the heat and the steam from the pot. With much noisily buzzing "Sssssssss" you dashed from above my head straight down toward the pot. I thought you had flown inside. I fished for you with the spoon, to no avail, for as I was searching you were flying above my head again. Then you had flown onto the kitchen sink and were nibbling. You enjoyed eating anything, after all. What was I to do? I felt like throwing the dishrag at you or even to strike out with the stirring spoon. But that could have led to broken dishes. Better not. You had yourself some refreshments at the cats' bowls. When you had eaten your fill you groomed yourself provocatively! With your forelegs over your mouth, your head, and finally you also polished your wings. But you gave me a good tip. From now on I'll pre-rinse everything so you can't feast on the leftovers. You gave us a break during lunch. The window and the door to the garden were open, and so where the skylights. You probably couldn't stand the draft. If that is so, then I guess we'll be able to get rid of you.

"After eating take a rest or a thousand steps" is what the old [German] proverb tells us. Well, I don't get around too well anymore. So, logically I was going to permit myself a well-deserved midday nap. A little reading and then a bit of dozing until coffee time is what I decided to do. It was a naïve plan. I had totally forgotten about you. If you weren't dead now I'd love to ask you, "What on earth was it that made you pick on me? I couldn't take a couple of steps without you being around." Now you were doing your thing in the bedroom as well, were dashing back and forth, and with full force against the window pane. But you survived that too, just shook yourself and continued to buzz, louder than ever. After that you landed on my right arm. I gave a whack with my left hand but only hit myself. Taking a dive with a whirring sound like a chopper you shot straight into my hair. Again I lashed out and ended up whacking myself on the noggin. Fortunately I no longer have a gallbladder; otherwise it would have overflowed. Bluebottle, you were going too far; you were running me out of bed. I ran after you with a folded newspaper. Now I had you on the large, wide window pane. Smack, smack, and with the third hit I got you. I smashed you on the windowsill. It was bad enough with you alive, but now you disgusted me all smashed flat with a bunch of eggs coming out of your backside. Quickly away with it! But now what? There you or your successor go again after me.

One thing you can say for winter days is that we don't have trouble with those darn bluebottles then.