In this special edition
Message from the board, by Ammerins Moss-de Boer
Happy memories, by Annie en Con Diender-Van der Veen
Timeless Hans, by Paul Ganzeboom
Even in the thickest fog, Hans knows the way, by Paul Hulsman
“The building will be closing in five minutes”, by Helen Wilcox & family
A Tribute to Hans, by Henk Dragstra
Hans, the Godfather of the English Department, by Anne Koster
ThumB ??? !!!, by Syca Dam-Visser
How I met Hans Jansen and turned him into a successful short time activist, by Fleur Woudstra
Scrumptious Scones, by Monique Swennenhuis
How to Swear Like Shakespeare, by Elke Maasbommel
Where the Mist Sing; a fairy tale, by Reinou Anker-Sollie
A Summer’s tale, by Marjan Brouwers
Message from the board
By Ammerins Moss-de Boer
Dear reader,
The idea of creating a special magazine dedicated to Hans – appropriately titled Hans – was conceived and confirmed rather swiftly. However, its execution turned out to be a far more elaborate undertaking. Because, how does one capture over four decades of Hans in onesingle publication? Time and again, new anecdotes surfaced, followed by the names of colleagues, former students and friends who we felt simply had to be included – and who, in turn, brought even more stories and people to mind. All the wile, we aimed to keep the entire endeavour a secret from Hans himself.
Ultimately, we are proud of the result, and we hope that this magazine offers a genuine reflection of Hans’s long-standing involvement with the University of Groningen – as a student, assistant, lecturer, and study advisor.
We hope you will enjoy reading it. And should you find yourself thinking of a quote, story or contribution that is missing, please don’t hesitate to get in touch. Who knows – Hans might yet become a recurring feature of Anglophile. To be continued… much like Hans himself, who – despite retirement – seems unable to fully sever his ties with the faculty (yes, he’ll be teaching a class next semester!).
Unforgettable memories
Happy memories
By Annie en Con Diender-van der Veen
What a request! Could I share some memories of Hans Jansen? Jansen H? Dr. J.P.M. Jansen? It seems that in June 2025 we will come to the end of an era. Hans is about to retire from his job at the RUG. Is he really? I can’t imagine that he really is. Teaching is in his blood. So is helping people. But let me try and recall some of the events that took place over the years that we have known him now.
We couldn´t have picked a better place to do so. Since we are here on holiday anyway, it is in fair Stratford-upon-Avon that we lay our scene. William Shakespeare is everywhere. The theatre, the statues, the church, on the tea towels we use, on the glasses we drink from. He is in the air we breathe. This is what it must feel like for Hans Jansen, to be totally immersed in anything to do with the Bard. He is also our link to Hans now. We meet Hans at least once a year in Diever, when we attend his introductory talks on the plays that are performed there. We save a seat for him in the audience and we share our goodies and catch up with the latest gossip.
Hans and Con and I go back a long way. He started his studies together with Con in 1976. And somehow even then he stood out from the crowd. Was it his brisk, determined walk? His wonderful auburn hair? His loud sonorous voice? His catchy laugh? Oh yes, no doubt. But it was also his interest in people. His willingness, even eagerness to help.
Where to start? So many names, events spring to mind. Let us give it a try.
I remember meeting Hans at Peter Frambach’s birthday party. They rented rooms in the same house, the old vicarage next to the church in the Moesstraat. Gabbie (Peter’s girlfriend) was there of course, over from Maastricht, bearing the ‘goodies’, i.e. real ‘vlaaien’ from Limburg. Hans showed us his latest acquisition, a brand new CD player, one of the first we ever saw. He was so proud of it, absolutely loved the sound of his beloved classical music now.
Hans joined the ESC board (English Students ’Club ) together with Wil Verhoeven, Anna van Gelderen, Nienke Houtzager, Baukje van Dijk, Jan Mellema en Con Diender. The ESC tried to organize all sorts of events, ranging from very educational lectures to great social happenings. I remember when the film Grease was first shown in the theatres, we went to see it with a whole bunch of people and afterwards visited a disco in town.
Every two weeks on the Wednesday night it was PUB night att the Hijgend Hert in the Papengang. A chance to socialize, dance, watch performances. I remember Harry Niehof, Pennyworth Flat (Aaltje ter Reegen, Reinette Tuin, Wim Tommassen, Martin Mulder, Rob Hermans and ‘us’ Popke van der Zee (no longer with us) when Rob went to Oxford to study there. I remember a Sinterklaas celebration when not 1 but 3 Sinterklazen showed up ! Tony Parr, Fred Adam and Geert Barkhof.
But after a Wednesday night there is always a Thursday morning….. with lectures. Prof. Gerritsen taught Middle English at 9.00 h. and it has been known that Hans and Con were the only students to attend!
Hans thought it a great idea to go to England and study there for a year. He went to Bristol and thoroughly enjoyed himself. Not only because he loved the university and his fellow students, but also because he was actually asked to teach Middle English! Those Thursday mornings with prof. Gerritsen paid off … ! His knowledge on the subject was so much greater than what the lecturers there could offer, that they asked him to step in and he most willingly did.
Together with Con Diender, Gert Egberts and Koop Tissingh I visited Hans there. I remember we had a meal with him once or twice, but Hans didn’t have a great deal of time for us. He was too busy with his teaching !
Koop also brought his cassette recorder and two bottles of ‘pot-stoppered’ Grolsch to Bristol. A gift for a local brewer in Bristol, Smiles Brewery (one of the first craft-brewers in Bristol, the brewery existed until 2005). He interviewed the brewer and wrote a glorious report which was published in The Icebreaker, the magazine for students of English (of which Koop was also the co-editor, together with Peter F.)
One of our good friends, Kees Hartmans (‘photo’ Kees) fell seriously ill. He was diagnosed with cancer and the only cure would be a bone-marrow transplant. If you had siblings there was a 25% chance that one of them could be a donor. Hurray for 3 brothers and a sister, there was a match and Kees was transported to Basel ( Switzerland), the only place where they agreed to perform this procedure on adults in those days. He had to stay inside a sterile tent for 6 weeks to improve his chances of survival. Hans decided to accompany Henk Braakman and Aaltje ter Reegen and visit Kees in Basel. They went, bearing loads of goodies and gifts a.o. recordings of the ‘Dik voor Mekaar Show’ to try and cheer him up. The cure worked and Kees lived for a great many years after this, had a wife and children, but is unfortunately no longer with us.
Aaltje seems to remember that Hans was actually on stage himself. The English Department had yearly performances by the E.S.C. Drama Society (now GUTS: Groningen University Theatre Society). In 1982 he was in The Sea (E. Bond) in the role of vicar. Yes, the love for drama has always been there with Hans. Perhaps a good teacher needs a little of that annieway!
Geert Barkhof laughed in his inimitable way when he told us how Hans and he would go to the cheapest students-cafetaria at Vera’s regularly together, but could never resist the temptation of the gorgeous Italian ice-cream of Fiorini’s on the Grote Markt. What do you mean, cheap meals ….. !
After we all graduated we saw less of Hans of course and of a lot of other people. People tend to spread out over the whole country after graduation. But I am quite sure that there are a great many people over the years who have very good memories of Hans Jansen, as a teacher, as a student-advisor, as a colleague, as a friend. Quite a legacy already!
Still, Shakespeare will always hold a special place in Hans’ heart. Whether it is as advisor to the players and director in Diever, or as editor of the William. Whether it is in educating people about Shakespeare or simply enjoying his works. He spends a lot of time in Diever, so perhaps now is the time for him to buy a little hideout there (a second home)?
But whatever he will decide to do after his retirement we wish him Good Health and a Long and Happy life! Until we meet again…. (sept.2025?)
Timeless Hans
by Paul Ganzeboom
Hans Jansen and me started as students of English in the same year (1976). Seeing him now and remembering him from the time we were first years, to me Hans evokes a feeling of timelessness.
From a few yards distance you would not be able to see much difference between Hans in the second half of the seventies and the (nearly) pensionado he is now. There is his always tightly combed short dark-red hair and his often neat Shetland-style sweaters. We, his fellow-students, were invariably wrestling with our outer appearance: longer hair at the end of the seventies or much shorter at the start of the eighties, flared trousers or tightly fitting mods style, jeans or carpenters trousers, glasses or contact lenses, etc. But Hans was never troubled by such frivolous matters, semper eadem may have been his time-honoured motto.
Being nearly always present (as far as I can remember), he was always very friendly and pleasant, sociable, outgoing, the life and heart of the English Department. If I say he was very much present I mean that this was always in a friendly, effortless way. A good word for all, and very knowledgeable about the latest on our teachers, and everything going on in the department at the time there. I think he hardly ever missed a biweekly Wednesday evening pub meeting at the Panting Deer, our get-togethers for students from our Anglistisch Instituut. And all were happy to meet him. So I was very happy for him, much later, when I found he had got a permanent position as a teacher-researcher in the university. Obviously, his loyalty and skills had been rewarded.
And so nice that I met him again in Diever two years ago, where he does great introductions to the open air Shakespeare plays there (my family also tells me). So, for now I wish Hans all the best in his third half, and I rest assured that he will truly enjoy this. Always having loved English, the language, its literature and culture, a man like Hans will make the most of the world of opportunities around this passion lying ahead of him now. May he fare well!
Even in the thickest fog, Hans knows the way
By Paul Hulsman
Hans and I met during a GUTS production in 1982. We have been friends ever since and have gone on holiday together several times. The most remarkable was undoubtedly our trip to the Lake District and Scotland in 1994.
On the day of departure, when we met at Groningen station, Hans pulled out two first-class train tickets. I never travelled first class: way too expensive! As with everything, Hans had a good reason for this: “We’re on holiday and have a lot of luggage, so we need the extra space.” What luxury! Ever since, I’ve been travelling first class on long train journeys too.
From Schiphol Airport we flew to Newcastle and then took buses to our first destination: Borrowdale in the Lake District. Hans had arranged everything. He had booked two all-inclusive holidays with Countrywide Holidays Association. Founded in 1893, CHA was established to provide “simple and strenuous recreative and educational holidays which offered reasonably priced accommodation for working people”. The accommodation was indeed still cheap, but the cars in the parking lot suggested that our fellow guests would not be members of the original target group. There was a surgeon with his wife and their ten-year-old son, for example, and a rather eccentric New Zealander who thought he could conquer Munros in worn-out tennis shoes.
When we met the other guests, it appeared that Hans enjoyed keeping them in the dark about his nationality. His flawless RP puzzled the ‘real’ natives. Had he perhaps grown up in one of the Home Counties? They were amazed to hear that he was Dutch. And showered him with compliments on his English, which he was visibly enjoying.
As a group, we hiked in the hills of the Lake District every day, led by a guide who kept us away from the tourist hot spots. In the evening, we had dinner together and then we often played group games.
We knew that Borrowdale had the most rainfall in the whole of England. However, not a drop fell that entire week. The guides told us that this had not happened in the past twenty years.
Our second stay was at Kinfauns Castle near Perth in the Scottish Lowlands, a large country house with extensive grounds, including a putting green. The other guests were a large group of elderly English people, mostly women, led by a red-bearded Scottish guide with a pot belly, sturdy legs in shorts and hiking boots. Here, too, Hans kept the ladies guessing about his country of origin and basked in the compliments about his English. Dinner was served at two long tables and the women sitting near Hans hung on his every word. The menu was traditional English. One time we could also choose haggis. We didn’t dare try it. And the less said about spotted dick, the better!
Hans and I usually went for hikes in the area, but one day we joined the group on a bus trip to the Highlands. We left the ladies in a tearoom and moved into the hills. We had a map and a compass, which was a good thing since the fog grew thicker as we climbed higher. In the end, visibility was down to six feet. We started to get a little nervous, as we were walking across the desolate moor by dead reckoning. At one point, Hans looked at the map and said: “There must be a small lake nearby. If we can find it, we’ll know where we are.” Then he stopped walking. In the silence, we heard the soft lapping of water against rocks. We had almost walked right into the lochan.
Kinfauns Castle was closed as a Countrywide Holidays location the week after we left. It was sold to a commercial party. CHA was dissolved in 2004.
Hans was a great travel companion. He always had everything prepared down to the last detail, but was flexible when things didn’t go as planned. Always optimistic and cheerful, full of ideas about what we could do next. You could do a lot worse….
Enjoy your well-earned retirement!
“The building will be closing in five minutes”
Memories of Hans
By Helen (on behalf of the Wilcox family)
In the late 1990s, when Monique Kroese unexpectedly had to step down as Study Advisor because of ill health, I thought that no-one would be able to fill her shoes and carry out that complex and important role as wonderfully as she had. I was wrong. Not long afterwards, Hans transferred to the English Department to take on the job and, in his very different but equally professional way, put his personal stamp on the role – with extremely positive results. Generations of students have benefited from his wisdom, concern, practical advice, and complete unflappability (if that’s actually a word – and if not, it should be invented to describe Hans’s particular equilibrium of temperament).
Hans and I were colleagues in the university, in one capacity or another, for fifteen years, and when I look back over that time, what I immediately think of is his laughter – regularly heard coming from his office, but also in the corridor, in the meeting room, during rehearsals for Christmas carols, on cycling outings, and of course in the café or pub. He has a great and infectious laugh which accurately indicates his cheerful, optimistic take on life.
Another aspect of Hans that springs to mind (or ear) is his voice – with its impeccable English pronunciation and warm tone. These combined to make him the official English voice of the Faculty. Often, when I was working late in the Harmoniegebouw, the announcement would come over the public address system, in Hans’s calmly-polite recorded message, that we should leave the building to avoid being locked in for the night. According to my son Tom, who was a member of the English department’s theatre group, GUTS, he and his fellow actors would often hear that same announcement in Hans’s voice as they were preparing a play when closing-time in the Harmonie approached. Apparently, the shorthand in their rehearsals for “it’s almost time to finish rehearsing” became “we’ve only got x minutes till Hans”.
Enthusiasm for the theatre, from medieval plays to modern drama, has always been a feature of Hans’s life. Indeed, he himself worked with GUTS for many years, on a huge variety of plays – with resultant moods ranging from excitement to despair at (and in) his student actors, as he demanded ever higher standards from them. For some time he was also a member of the English language theatre group of the NAM in Assen, wittily named The Namateurs, where he and my husband Allan worked together on several unforgettable productions. One of these, if I remember rightly, was the hilarious Noises Off by Michael Frayn, in which a play by an amateur dramatic society is experienced from backstage as well as front, and the audience witnesses everything going wrong that possibly can – wonderful to watch, but no doubt as nerve-wracking as the fictional performance for the actors and director.
At the time of the university’s 400th anniversary in 2014, Hans played a memorable part in the film that was made in honour of the occasion – “For Infinity”. His imitation of a dry bureaucrat spouting the institution’s straplines was splendid; he and his real-life girlfriend, Willemien, also made a brief silent appearance as the passers-by who shrug their shoulders at the wild goings-on in the university library. It was typical of Hans that he would take on these self-mocking roles, on top of his heavy workload in the department, with great good humour. Allan and I have watched this film enjoyably, many times, having a further vested interest: our son Tom played the role of the innocent student from outer space (also called Tom), who has to learn all about the history of the university and the temptations of life in Groningen, as well as work for his degree. (Spoiler alert … he graduates and gets the girl!)
In more recent years, Hans has become associated in all our minds with his particular favourite playwright, Shakespeare. Many years ago, he took over running the departmental Shakespeare course from the colleagues (Luuk Houwen and I) who initially established the link with Stratford, and he has energetically organised and promoted this annual week-long experience of lectures, discussions and theatre performances. Over the past decade or so, Hans has also become deeply involved with the Shakespeare Theatre at Diever, advising the director, writing articles in the journal, and giving public lectures before the summer performances. These talks have become legendary, and so popular that he has to offer them many times during the season. His being able to bridge the gap between literary scholarship, dramatic performance and the interested play-going public in this way is a major achievement to be applauded. Finally, he once again showed his great sense of fun by encouraging three former students – Cees Krottje, Kees de Vries, and Tom – to perform the wonderfully irreverent Complete Works of Shakespeare (Abridged) for the opening of the indoor Globe Theatre at Diever. Has Shakespeare’s reputation in the north of the Netherlands ever quite recovered, I wonder?
Thank you, Hans, for all that you have contributed to the university and the region – as well as, of course, to the English Department and the lives of the colleagues and students fortunate enough to have worked with you. The building won’t quite be closing without you, but it will never be the same …
A tribute to Hans Jansen
by Henk Dragstra
Dear Hans,
After knowing you as a student, and later as a colleague for many a decade, I see we have arrived at the final stage of our academic lives: we’re both cast-offs now. It was an easy change for me, but it may take you a while to get used to so much leisure time. Though I can’t testify to the last dozen years, I always knew you to be a very busy man about the department.
As far as your days as a lecturer are concerned, your multiple involvements are well-known facts and need no elaboration by me, especially since March 2017, when ‘Anglophile’ opened with ‘Honouring Hans Jansen’, a heading that says it all over a text that sums it all up. In addition, we have your recent farewell party, where you were again lavishly lauded for good measure. So, I conveniently hold myself excused from listing all the functions and occasions at which you were observed speaking that impeccable English and sporting that ear-to-ear grin. Colleagues came and went, students passed like water under the bridge, and we were moved from one building to another, but you were always there. You were even there when you weren’t: it was your recorded voice that announced fire alarm tests all over the Harmonie buildings, as well as the closing of the buildings on Friday nights. To put it briefly, you were the department.
At the personal level, I found you a pleasant colleague, and a helpful one. I was astonished to see you finish your doctoral dissertation within a few years after graduation, while I was still struggling with mine. Your success encouraged me to believe that it could be done soon, and your advice helped me to achieve it. I thanked you for that at the time, but it won’t do any harm to repeat it now.
What only old fogeys like myself remember is that you were omnipresent in the department even before you were hired. As a freshman in the mid-seventies, you stood out in the crowd. The average male student of English at the time—for the information of later generations—presented a casual appearance: long hair, jeans and t-shirt, usually unironed, and half a dozen button badges proclaiming revolutionary leanings. Your get-up was the opposite: well-groomed, clean-shaven, checked or striped shirts, no blue jeans ever; I bet you even polished your shoes. Also contrary to current custom, you took your study very seriously, including the codicology that was Professor Gerritsen’s notorious hobby, and which you enthusiastically embraced. To general acclaim, but nobody’s surprise, you finished the four-year Kandidaats in three years, followed up by a mouth-watering year of codicology in Bristol.
When after all that studiousness you decided to devote some time to dissipation at last, you laudably spent it boozing with your fellow English students for their instruction and profit. You got involved with the English students’ society, and with the drama society, both variously named through the years, and sometimes with the periodical, which at the time went under the name of Ice-Breaker. Even there your contributions were edifying: reporting from Bristol, exhorting your fellow students to study codicology (what else?), or to attend an optional class on Joyce’s Ulysses—not without first reading the whole damn book. I also remember you vividly as organizer of the first introductory weekends for our freshmen, and featuring in one capacity or another on the programme of almost every drama production our students put on. In other words, you were the social life of our students.
This transpired most convincingly in 1988, when you had finished your dissertation but had not yet secured a teaching job other than as a student-assistant for a year. The students’ periodical, then called Split, published an in-depth interview with you, proving how essential a pillar of the department you had become and how sorely you would be missed. Fortunately, the Language Centre were astute enough to hire you until the English department finally came to their senses.
Now, at the other end of your career, you have fully earned your right to sit back and relax. But as you announced at your farewell party, you’ve already signed up to teach more courses. The disclosure was met with, yes, general acclaim and unsurprised smiles by all: retired or not, you still are Hans Jansen.
Hans, the Godfather of the English Department
By Anne Koster
During my time studying for a Bachelor’s degree in English Language and Culture, Hans Jansen felt like the godfather of the program, a central and stable heart that students, even in their sometimes very unstable student lives, could always rely on. I’ve dropped many a student off at his door in a state of sadness or sheer despair, and they always came back with a heart full of good cheer.
At the open day, or even a student-for-a-day, I joined a small group of fresh-out-of-the-press high school kids who didn’t know what to do with the rest of their lives. Hans Jansen welcomed us with an opening that sounded like, “We’re all coffee or tea addicts here and love books” (apologies, it’s been a few years), and it felt like coming home. Two simple things, in a world of thousands of choices. I must admit that with that sentence alone, Hans had already won me over to the English side.
I saw Hans having so much fun and enjoyment in his job; it was so clear that he was the perfect person for the role, connecting with students of all generations like a natural. I hope to one day find myself in a position where I get as much enjoyment and satisfaction as Hans did from being a study advisor.
ThumB ??? !!!
By Syca Dam-Visser
If not for Hans, I might have ended up as a lowly paid clerk in an office somewhere in a place like the Wieringermeer…
Summer 1982. Ms Verpalen made it very clear to me at my speaking exam at the end of my first year of English: my pronunciation was so abysmally bad that nothing would ever become of me as a student of English. I might just as well stop my studies right then and there and choose an alternative career, far away from the English department.
Fortunately, the kind Mr Bunt and Mr van Eck awarded me a 6- at my re-sit in September so that I could continue with my studies. However, they did advise me to take some remedial pronunciation lessons. When I left their room, I actually jumped for joy, which earned me a funny look from a serious looking fellow student…
Enter HANS JANSEN.
Of course I had seen him around. He was hard to be missed. A sort of demi-god for first year students, with his somewhat stereotypical English student look, his all-round knowledge and his wonderfully posh British accent. He was the one who had witnessed my jump for joy after my re-sit.
Somewhere in October 1982, I nervously entered a private teaching room for a session with Hans to help me along with my English pronunciation.
Something you should know is that next to the tap in my wash basin I had a small cactus… (Why? Because I did not have a window sill in my 2 by 3 student room) and that morning when washing my hands one of the spines of the cactus had become embedded in my thumb. OUCH… When I entered Hans’s teaching room my thumb had started throbbing seriously. So, when Hans started me off speaking some English with some introductory chit chat, I soon told him ‘my thumb hurts.’
I will never forget the look on Hans’s face … ‘thumB??? Did you say thumb??? Perhaps you would like to reconsider?? “ . I had actually no idea what he was on about… I could have crawled under the table out of shame … It slowly dawned on me that the “B” in thumb might be one of those thingammies… euh…. silent letters?
Since then, whenever I saw Hans, I was always reminded of this ……… The look of utter incredibility and horror on his face after he had heard me abuse the language he loved so much has haunted me ever since. But slowly shame became gratefulness for showing me the errors of my ways.
And when I became a teacher something which nobody at the English Department had probably expected, least of all me) and had to listen to countless youngsters speaking English with the most horrendous Dutch accents, I finally understood his reaction. And I must admit that sometimes, during speaking exams, I felt myself unable to control my facial muscles and must unwittingly have copied Hans’s reaction to me saying thumB all those years go. Poor students.
How I met Hans Jansen and turned him into a successful short time activist
By Fleur Woudstra
Years ago a big black cloud threatened the greater Groningen area: long before we could watch the BBC on the telly we found out that the BBC World Service was to be removed from the regional list of cable radio programs.
Broadcasting the BBC wasn’t “lucrative enough” according to the cable company. Other senders had their preference as they brought in money through advertising, a phenomenon that the World Service treated with benign neglect: very pleasant for the listeners!
Something had to be done before it was too late. I called in the help of the English Department where Hans Jansen turned out to be its spokesman. He certainly wasn’t amused by the news of “losing BBC Radio” and was very supportive indeed. Radio Noord interviewed an indignant Hans as well as emeritus professor Dr. Rudy Bremer who reacted furiously as a blaze.
Fortunately this bad publicity made the cable company change its mind.
Until this very day we’ve been fortunate to be able to not only watch but also listen to the excellent BBC World Service programmes.
Thank you, Hans!
Scrumptious scones
by Monique Swennenhuis
Dear Hans,
Retiring from a full-time job requires focusing on new activities that you can undertake in all that leisure time that you now have (if you are not teaching, that is…). I thought it might be a good idea if you started spending more time in the kitchen, and providing Willemien with all kinds of delicious goodies. So, you are one of the very few people I share my scones recipe with 🙂
For 10-12 scones:
- 225 gr of self-raising flour
- 1 teaspoon of baking powder
- 50 gr of butter
- 25 gr of caster sugar
- 1 egg
- buttermilk
Step 1
Heat the oven to 220C/200C fan. Tip the self-raising flour into a large bowl with ¼ tsp salt and the baking powder, then mix.
Step 2
Add the butter, then rub in with your fingers until the mix looks like fine bread crumbs. Stir in the caster sugar.
Step 3
Break the egg into a jug, lightly beat it, and then add the buttermilk until it is 150 ml.
Step 4
Cover a baking tray with baking paper or a silicone mat. Make a well in the dry mix, then add the egg/buttermilk mix and combine it quickly with a cutlery knife – it will seem pretty wet at first.
Step 5
Scatter some flour onto the work surface and tip the dough out. Dredge the dough and your hands with a little more flour, then fold the dough over 2-3 times until it’s a little smoother. Roll it out to about 3-4cm deep. Take a 4cm cutter (smooth-edged cutters tend to cut more cleanly, giving a better rise) and dip it into some flour. Plunge into the dough, then repeat until you have 10-12 scones. You may need to press what’s left of the dough once or twice to finish all the cutting.
Step 6
Brush the tops with a beaten egg, or some milk, then carefully arrange on the baking tray. Bake for 10 mins until risen and golden on the top. Eat just warm or cold on the day of baking, generously topped with jam and clotted cream.
Enjoy!
Some Bard-related contributions
How to Swear Like Shakespeare
By Elke Maasbommel
“Methink’st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee.”
– William Shakespeare
Have you ever wanted to insult someone in such a way that it would leave them speechless? But did you find yourself using the same old boring language again? Then you should take a look at William Shakespeare’s elegant way of insulting people. Even though he died over four hundred years ago, his witty insults are just as impressive and hilarious today as they were all those centuries ago. It’s not easy to come up with the perfect insult. It takes time and effort, and it’s also important to know a little bit about the way Shakespeare concocted his insults before you can give it a go yourself. So pay attention, be patient, and read on.
Disclaimer: I am a nice person. In no way am I trying to be unkind or to spread hate. I simply consider this an entertaining way of using creative language, and I hope you do, too.
Step 1: “I Call for Pen and Ink and Write My Mind” – What You Need
What you need in order to write a proper insult, is, obviously, pen and paper. You might also want to use a pencil for brainstorming. Also make sure you get a dictionary, and, if you have one, a thesaurus. A dictionary is useful, since the English language has changed a lot in four hundred years, and some words Shakespeare used might have become unfamiliar. A thesaurus, a book that lists words and their synonyms, might come in handy when you want to spice up your language. If you don’t have a physical copy, just look it up on the internet – oh, the joys of living in the Digital Age!
Furthermore, if you’re really determined to hurt someone to their very core, make sure to get a copy of the Collected Works of William Shakespeare. There’s a plethora of brilliant examples just waiting to be read that will inspire you to give it your all and come up with the most inventive of insults.
Step 2: “I Scorn You, You Scurvy Companion” – Pick the Theme of Your Insult
But first: a short introduction to William Shakespeare. Insults 101, so to speak. Shakespeare never just called someone stupid, or smelly, or annoying. That would be far too easy. Instead, he had a wide range of themes he could pick from in order to deliver the cruellest insult imaginable. I will list the most important ones here, accompanied by some examples. Make sure you read them carefully, because you will base your final insults on the next two steps!
– Personal attributes. If you want to make it personal, you should focus on intelligence (or lack thereof) or their occupation. Nobody likes it when that happens. “I was seeking for a fool when I found you.“
– Animals. It’s always a good idea to insult someone by telling them they remind you of a specific animal. The more disgusting the animal, the better. We still do that, too. You could call someone a dog or a pig, and everyone would know exactly what you mean. Shakespeare, of course, turned this into an art form in itself. “What a slug” or “A very toad” are great examples.
– Food and inanimate objects. This is kind of the same as the one above, but with food or other things instead of animals: “Thou art damned like an ill-roasted egg“. Oh, that one hurts! Another one I really like is “The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.”
– Diseases. Well, this one makes sense, I guess. If someone tells you you’re like a disease, that can never be a compliment. Shakespeare specialised on this particular topic, “Thou art a boil, a plague-sore, an embossed carboncle” being one of my favourites, for if one disease doesn’t do it, just add some more.
– Body parts and physical appearance. It’s always fun to refer to someone’s body when you want to give them a proper scolding, as many people have at least one aspect they don’t like that much about themselves. It’s also fun to tell someone that they lack something they should have: “Thou thing of no bowels, thou” or that they have something they would rather not have: “Thou odoriferous stench“.
If you want to look at all these topics in a lovely, insightful infographic, take a look at this site: https://curiouscharts.com/products/a-taxonomy-of-great-shakespearean-insults
Step 3: “Oh Thy Foul One” – Decide on Your Type of Insult
There are several ways in which you can deliver the perfect Shakespearean insults. Some are easier to compose than others, but I want to share the most entertaining ones with you. Read them through, and decide which one you like best, or which one simply works most for you.
– “Thou elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog.” This type of Shakespearean insult is by far the most popular one. You simply start your sentence with thou, then use two fancy adjectives, followed by a noun (choose from any of the themes mentioned in step 2). There are several Shakespeare Insult Generators online, or even available as a hardcover book. Use this site, for instance: https://9gag.com/gag/aA195WE/the-shakespearean-in…. Just pick a word from each column, and there’s your insult. It’s a lot of fun to practise with these, as they are relatively easy to create.
– “Thou art a fleshmonger, a fool and a coward.“Instead of hurling adjectives at the person you’re trying to hurt with your words, just tell them what they are, loud and clear. The more insulting words, the better, of course!
– “Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon.” Usually when someone wishes you something, it’s definitely a good thing. However, Shakespeare turns it around and uses a wish in order to completely burn them down.
– “Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.” If you really want to insult someone stylishly, just make sure you compare them to something. There are endless examples with this type of insult.
– “I would beat thee, but I would infect my hands“. Instead of telling people what they are like, just turn it around by describing the unpleasant effect the person has on you. This stings more than just telling people they are, for example, merely disgusting.
There. It’s a lot of information, but I hope you’ve managed to remember most of it. Let’s put it into practice now!
Step 4: “’t Is Time to Do ’t”: Choose Your Insultee
Look at him. He’s begging to have a good insult thrown at his arrogant face, isn’t he? You now know some of the ways in which Shakespeare insulted someone, so the time has come to try it out for yourself. The first thing you have to do is to pick someone you really don’t like, someone you would love to hurt or humiliate, making use of nothing but your words.
I have decided to pick Draco Malfoy from J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, as he is quite well known, and rather unlikable. This boy is one of Harry’s enemies, and he’s got several character traits working against him. So let’s insult him. Let’s hurt him. Let’s destroy him, using only our words. The next couple of steps will show you how to do this, using your brand-new knowledge of William Shakespeare and his methods of insulting.
Note: If you don’t know this fictional character, or, inexplicably, don’t mind him, you’re of course perfectly free to use pick your own victim.
Step 5: “Thou Art False in All” – Write Down Their Worst Qualities
We’ve just agreed on using Draco Malfoy as the victim of our insults. What you need to do now, is think of all the things that make him annoying, disgusting, evil, or whatever you think of him. Take your pen and paper and create a mindmap of Draco Malfoy and all his bad character traits. Make sure to come up with as many as possible, because you’ll need all of them to come up with the perfect insult for this wormy creature.
Look at the picture for inspiration.
Step 6: “In Thee Thy Mother Dies” – Pick the One That Hurts the Most
I hope you’ve been able to come up with all sorts of mean things to say to Draco. The thing is, some of them wouldn’t even hurt him. If you’d call him mean or cruel, he’d probably just shrug his shoulders and tell you you’d probably deserve it, then. Likewise, he probably wouldn’t even react to a silly insult like ugly or vain. Therefore, it is important to think hard about his vulnerabilities. Only then can you truly hurt him.
Draco is a very proud boy. He’s happy to be part of Slytherin, like his parents and grandparents before him. He is well chuffed that his father is a prominent member of the Wizarding Society, and he won’t have it if someone speaks ill of his mother. Hmm, I think we’re on to something here.
So, let’s stick with this idea and go to the next step.
Step 7: “Thou Lump of Foul Deformity” – Shakespearising Your Insult
So far, you’ve decided on who to insult, you know what you want to call them, and you know what would hurt them the most. You are almost done, but not quite. What you need to do now is to make it Shakespearean: pick a topic and a type of insult (I explained this in step two and three).
First think about what sort of insult you want to make. Would you like to comment on his personal attributes, or tell him there are animals that you like better? Or is he a sickness to you, or rather a stone? It’s all up to you! The best way to do this, would be to experiment with different themes – it’s great fun!
Secondly, what type of insult would you throw at him? A simple “thou …” one? Or wish him something? Compare him to something? Again, you decide what you like best. Don’t forget to write it all down! If you keep notes while coming up with examples, it’s so much easier to come up with the perfect insult!
If you’re happy with both of these aspects, then you should combine them and write down what you think will become the final version of your insult, but in your own words, in modern language. The only thing that still remains to be done is to make sure it sounds as witty and fancy like Shakespeare. How? Next step!
Step 8: “As Good As Done” – Use Your Thesaurus
It’s time to make sure your words sound old-fashioned, eloquent, and intelligent. In short: try to sound like Shakespeare. Bring out the dictionary and the thesaurus!
Take a look at everything you’ve written down so far, and determine whether you’re happy with all the words you’ve used in your insult. If not, look these up in the thesaurus and exchange them for better ones. I have tried to do this in the picture above. The synonyms look so much better, don’t they?
Also, make sure you change your yous into thous, thees, and thys. It makes it sound more authentic. Take a look at this website if you want to be sure you apply the correct word: https://www.quora.com/What-is-the-difference-betwe…
Step 9: “All’s Well That Ends Well” – That’s It, You’re Done!
We’re there. It all started with Draco Malfoy being an annoying little brat who is desperate for some attention of his mother. He is a spineless, ugly, pretentious kid, and he needed a good humiliation. And now look what we’ve done: these insults really work, don’t they? I think they do, and it was jolly good fun to create them. I have tried to come up with a couple of them, using a different type of insult every time. You can also combine them, of course.
So that’s it. That’s all you need to know if you want to write your own Shakespearean insult. I promise you, it’s so much fun to do, both on your own or with friends. You could even organise a theme night and have a contest on who can come up with the best insults. Enjoy!
Where the Mist Sings
By Reinou Anker-Sollie
Once upon a time, there was a newly retired English professor who looked—as some fondly said—slightly like Hugh Grant, if Hugh Grant had spent a few decades in libraries rather than rom-coms. He was driving the scenic route from Groningen to Diever, where he would, once again, deliver an introduction to A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Shakespeare Theatre. A pastime he had kept on, not wanting to fall into that “black hole” so many people had already warned him about.
Having left home early, he chose to avoid the thrum of the A28 and meander instead through the storybook villages of Norg and Bovensmilde, where tall trees stood like quiet sentinels along the road, their trunks straight and silver-grey in the light of the setting sun. Many of the houses had neatly combed thatched roofs, giving the villages the look of a place caught gently between the past and the present. Today, he was content to play the tourist, letting the land unfold like a slow sonnet.
He looked forward to the evening’s performance, not only for the charm of the play, but also for the quiet pride of knowing some of his former students would be in attendance. It had been a surprisingly windless, golden September day, the kind that feels borrowed from another season—warm, damp, and a little dreamlike, as if the sky had dozed off and forgotten to move the clouds.
Hans—for that was the professor’s name—hoped the audience would come prepared for the sudden temperature drops that haunt Dutch evenings. Most regulars brought bags filled with soft pillows, tartan blankets, and thermoses of tea and wine, ready to settle in as if the play were being told by the fire. Others, less seasoned, arrived with little more than their jackets and good intentions, often ending up wrapped in borrowed shawls or balanced on the edge of someone else’s picnic rug—unwittingly folded into the generous magic of strangers.
As the sun began its slow descent behind the low, tree-lined horizon, the light turned amber, casting long shadows across the fields like fingers reaching for forgotten things. Hans had intended to pass straight through Bovensmilde, but the main road was unexpectedly closed—a police car blocked the way, and an officer waved him toward a detour with the sort of shrug that said not my fault, not my problem.
And so Hans found himself on the Bosweg, a narrow, long lane that took him past Woodz Pancake Restaurant and dipped into a quiet patch of wooded countryside, where the trees pressed close on either side and the sun filtered through the leaves and branches in quiet rays, like golden threads stitching light into shadow.
His car—a sleek, silent electric model that purred more than it roared—glided along the lane with the grace of a cat avoiding puddles. The only sounds were the soft hum of the wheels and the occasional whisper of leaves above, as if the trees were sharing secrets he wasn’t meant to hear.
But as he passed a stand of ancient oaks, crooked and wise-looking, something changed.
A faint flicker on the dashboard, almost imperceptible. Then, the soft hum of the motor dipped—just slightly, like a sigh—then a warning message blinked on the screen: “Drive system failure. Please pull over safely.”
Hans frowned. The battery had been full when he left, and the car had never given him trouble. Still, he eased it onto a grassy shoulder, where the road curved gently near a patch of moorland. The car gave one last, reluctant chime and fell silent, as if it had decided—quite politely—that this was as far as it would go.
He stepped out into the cooling air. He’d reached the edge of the woods and the heather stretched out before him, muted purples and greys in the already fading light. Wasn’t it a bit early to be this dark? A fine mist was beginning to collect in the hollows between the trees behind him. It clung to the spiderwebs stretched between the branches, turning them into strings of silver pearls spun by unseen hands.
He tried his phone. No signal. Of course.
Hans chuckled under his breath, a sound more amused than annoyed. “Typical,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Stranded, halfway to Shakespeare.”
The silence that followed was not empty, but expectant—as though the land itself had paused to listen.
With his limited—or more accurately, non-existent—knowledge of electric cars, or cars in general, Hans decided to look for the manual, hoping there might be something simple he could try before walking off in search of a phone signal and calling the ANWB. He began rummaging through the car’s various compartments, opening hidden panels and felt-lined nooks, but the manual remained elusive.
Just as he pulled open the cubby box for a second time, he paused. There—was that a whisper? Soft laughter? Singing?
He stilled and looked up. The mist outside has thickened—and it was moving, not with the wind (for there was none), but with a strange, intentional shifting, as if the fog itself were parting… or forming.
Within it, faint white shapes seem to glide, half-seen and vanishing the moment he tried to focus. A shimmer here, a fold of pale cloth there. Voices rose again—sweet, unplaceable—and now unmistakably song. Old, lilting… Elizabethan?
“Is there anyone there?” Hans calls out, squinting into the haze. “I hate to admit it, but I could use some help!”
His voice hung in the air a moment too long. And although he knew better—knowing many of the old tales, the warnings, the signs—he walked forward anyway, drawn toward the sound as if it had taken root in his chest and was gently pulling him on a thread. The song was clearer now: something haunting, something lost, and something very old.
Figures appeared more clearly in the mist, but Hans still had difficulty seeing how many there were. One of them—or perhaps all of them—spoke in a hushed voice, gentle yet absolute:
“Dear sir, we will offer our assistance, if you prove worthy and offer us yours. First, you will be tested with two riddles, then if considered worthy, we will ask you to perform a task.”
Not sensing any malice from these white women, Hans bravely(?) accepted.
“I have roots but do not drink,
A crown but no throne,
I stand in heather, watching time—
What am I, all alone?”
Hans smiles and brushes a few drops of mist water from his coat. “A tree, no doubt. But given your heather and loneliness—an oak in a forgotten moor, perhaps?”
They hummed approvingly, and the mist rippled slightly.
Another shape, ethereal and sharp, clearly one voice now: “Tell us, professor, which is truer love: Viola’s devotion to Orsino, or Titania’s enchantment with Bottom?”
Hans considered his answer thoroughly. “Viola’s love was tested in silence—faithful, hidden, noble. Titania’s was enchanted, yes, but revealed a deeper truth: we all fall for illusions, yet the heart can still find joy in the absurd. So… both, I dare say. For Shakespeare, love was a riddle no scholar ever truly solved.”
The figures swirled around him, pleased. The mists glowed faintly with a silvery light. The moon, perhaps? Hans lost track of time and suddenly realised that if the moon was shining, he was late for his introduction. He saddened at the thought, but accepted the situation as it was. It simply could not be helped.
“So those were the riddles—what task can I help you with?” he asked. He heard whispers all around him until again one clear voice spoke: “You have been found worthy. There is a gate at the edge of the forest. Old wood, silvered by rain, and no one sees it anymore. It hangs open, forgotten. The open gate allows passage here to those who do not belong in this realm. They taunt us, haunt us.”
Hans blinked. “You want me to… close a gate?”
“If you please. It must be shut before the moon is high. The path cannot hold if it remains ajar.”
He scratched the back of his neck, half-expecting to wake up in his lecture hall. “Right. Of course. I’ll just go and, er—fix your metaphysical draught.”
Hans hears a laugh no louder than the rustle of dry leaves.
“It has been open a long time, it might not give in easily.”
Hans shrugged, resigning himself. “Well, I’ll do whatever I can. But if the gate cannot be seen, how shall I find it?”
“The owl will guide you there.”
Hans frowned, his mind whirring, it was all quite cryptic. Luckily he was familiar with this neck of the woods and he knew there was an old ruin—Uilenhorst. It shouldn’t be too far away. Perhaps he should start there. He cautiously stepped into the thickening mist, the forest grew quieter—no bird calls, no rustle of small creatures, just the soft thuds of his own footsteps on the forest floor and the occasional snap of small branches breaking the silence around him. After quite a walk, Hans reached the Uilenhorst ruin. Forgotten, crumbling bare white stone walls, the remnants of a building where students once laboured to restructure the land and where the resistance hid during the war. Perched silently inside a window frame was an owl—its feathers mottled grey and brown.
The owl’s large eyes fixed on him with unblinking calm, he softly hooted and then said: “Looking for a gate that no one sees?” It had a deep voice, but textured like bark scraping stone.
Hans blinked. “I… yes. But I’m not quite sure where to begin.”
The owl ruffled its feathers, then spoke again:
“Where ruts run deep from wooden tread,
Past trees long fallen, ghostly, dead,
The path will turn—a single loop,
A circle carved by time’s old troop.
There lies the breach, though none may see—
A gate unlatched by memory.
Close what’s open, seal the air,
Lest wandering spirits linger there.”
Hans frowned, the riddle sinking slowly into his mind. “A loop… and dead trees…” He glanced around the ruin, then back toward the forest.
The owl gave another soft hoot.
“Follow the silver thread of night,
Where moonbeam carves the path in light.
When waking eyes are blind to seam,
You’ll find the gate inside a dream.
There lies the gate you must make fast,
Before the spell is overcast.”
Hans swallowed hard, the weight of the task now settling in. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
The owl spread its wings and vanished into the mist like a shadow melting at dawn. Upon the owl’s departure Hans decided to walk around the ruin and look for anything that might in any way resemble a clue in the owl’s riddle. And lo and behold, in the light of the moon, which is becoming stronger by the second, he noticed the white trunks and branches of some old, fallen trees. He slowly walked towards them when he stumbled and fell into a ditch. Luckily the ditch was not very deep, and he hadn’t injured himself. The lack of light was starting to hinder him. But upon further inspection, the ditch had a twin, two ditches… a deep-worn cart trail! Hans decided to follow the trail and noticed that it turned back towards itself. “This must be it! But how to see the gate?” Hans sat down on the grass and let his mind wander trying to find out what the rest of the riddle means, thinking it might come to him when letting go instead of straining his focus.
As Hans’ thoughts start drifting, he saw something shimmering in the bushes that surround the circle he was sitting in. Curious as he is, he walked toward it and saw that it was a mirror. However, it did not show him a normal reflection… well in this sixties, but looking not a day older than 45. It showed him as a bitter, lonely, forgotten, old creature. His future? Hans stares for a moment. And then he throws his head back and lets out his signature laugh—loud, full-throated, echoing through the trees like thunder rolling through an empty hall.
“Ridiculous!” he scoffs, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye. “What nonsense! Me? Like that?” He shakes his head. “Never. Not in a hundred years. I’ll be my old—read: young—social, sparkling, and positive self, thank you very much.”
With that, he turns away from the mirror, still chuckling. And then, suddenly, he sees it: a gate, standing in the middle of the circle of the old road. As if his laughter—his refusal to take the image seriously, his rejection of what he might become—was what allowed the gate to appear.
It was an exceptionally uncommon location for a gate, but given the strange quest it did not surprise him whatsoever. Strangely enough, the gate closed without even a squeak. Hans made sure hit was locked properly and started walking toward, where he thought his car was, in the dark, because the clouds had decided to start moving again and were now blocking the light of the moon.
Hans woke inside his now-working car, parked neatly by the roadside. When he looked at the clock on the dashboard, he sees that only a few minutes had passed from the moment his car died. He felt like he had spent the whole evening strutting through a dark forest, but if the clock was right, he could still make it to the theatre on time. Had it all been a dream? Then he noticed three flowers on the dashboard, a purple and a pink aster and a white daisy. The colours symbolising gratitude, wisdom and new beginnings.
During the introduction to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hans realised his adventure with the Witte Wieven is a tale Shakespeare himself would probably have appreciated. And as the audience leaves the small indoor theatre used for the introductions, to take their seats at the outdoor theatre, Hans looks toward the forest beyond the stage. In the distance, faint white figures drift among the trees—listening, whispering—will they be enjoying the words of the Bard?
A Summer’s tale
By Marjan Brouwers
It was one of those early September afternoons, when, on a good day, it still feels like summer. All was quiet, except for the sound of some sparrows fighting over the leftovervscone crumbs on the outdoor table. Inside Hans was dozing in his favourite comfy chair, enjoying a moment of rest after lunch. Or was it more like his second breakfast? He shrugged. Now that he had retired, he finally had time to bake scones and eat them while they were still hot. He had promised Willemien that she would have some, when she got home from work. The thought made him smile. Yes, he would put another batch in the oven. But not now. Not yet.
He closed his eyes, but just as he was about to fall asleep, his phone pinged loudly. He opened one eye, then closed it again. There was no need to check his emails. No more. He was retired and the English Department would just have to manage without him now. Then his phone screeched, and this time he looked up. It was as if someone was shrieking his name.
Suddenly, the comfortable summer heat was sucked out of the room and the curtains closed themselves. Before he could wonder how on earth, they were able to do that, the door flew open and someone came in. Surprisingly, Hans wasn’t scared or angry at this unwelcome intrusion. He was intrigued. His translucent visitor wore a white gown and her long dark hair streamed down her back. Her eyes were like dark pools and her skin was ghostly white. Hans immediately realised what was happening in his living room. He was dreaming about a Victorian ghost. So interesting.
‘Hello,’ he said, trying to keep his baritone voice down so as not to frighten the spirit away. ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’
The spirit seemed a little disconcerted by his lack of fear. Perhaps she had expected him to hide behind the sofa, but as usual, his curiosity overcame any sense of unease. ‘I am the ghost of the past,’ she replied in a reedy voice. ‘I am here to…’
‘No, no, no,’ interjected Hans. ‘That cannot be right. You are nothing like I imagined Marley. And I’m certainly no Scrooge.’
Suddenly the spirit hovered right in front of him. A chilly blast of air struck his face. ‘Do not mock me, mere mortal!’ she cried shrilly. ‘I am here to take you back in time, to show you the past.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Hans. ‘I remember my past very well, thank you, and I don’t regret anything.’
‘Oh, really? We shall see.’ She grabbed his hand and with a woosh his living room disappeared. Hans found himself back in Tillburg. At the kitchen table he remembered so well from his childhood, a young man was seated. He had glossy hair, a lean figure and spotless glasses perched on his well-formed nose. Hans grinned when he realised how little his appearance had changed over time.
Sitting across from his younger self, he saw his mother handing over a manilla envelope. Mother and son were silent for a while. Then his mother urged him to open it. ‘I bet they will give you a place in Nijmegen. It will be so lovely to have you close by, Hans. Go on, don’t keep us in suspense.’
Hans knew exactly which point in time the translucent ghost had taken him to. This letter would determine his future in a way that he, as a youngster, had not expected. Young Hans carefully opened the letter, unfolded the paper inside, started reading, and turned so pale that his skin almost looked green.
‘What is it, Hans,’ his mother asked. ‘Not Nijmegen then?’
‘No,’ whispered young Hans. ‘They want me to go to Groningen. Why, mum? This is awful. What does Groningen have to offer me? Surely, I won’t fit in at all. This is a disaster. What am I going to do?’ He dropped his head into his hands and spoke no more. Hans took a step forward, wishing he could comfort the lad. He wanted to tell him that all would be well. That he would grow to love Groningen. ‘You’ll never want to leave again,’ he whispered.
But young Hans didn’t see or hear him. Instead, he was still looking rather green around the gills. ‘I only want to study English in Nijmegen,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Nowhere else. If I can’t go there, I’ll do something else. Work, I suppose. Or maybe I’ll still be able to apply to go to some high school in the United States. That could be fun. Anything but going to Groningen. Then I could try to get a place in Nijmegen next year.’
The ghost of the past placed her cold fingers on Hans’s upper arm. ‘You can help that boy, if you want. I will give you the power to help him. What if you hadn’t gone to Groningen? What if you had gone to America for a year? Would that have changed your life? Let’s find out!’
Hans brushed off her ghostly fingers and tried to tell her that he was quite happy with how his life had turned out, but she ignored his objections and with a flash his childhood kitchen disappeared and he was back in his comfy chair. The curtains were open and there was no sign of that interfering Victorian hussy. He wanted to get up, but he felt incredibly tired. He closed his eyes, grateful to be free to enjoy his afternoon nap now that there were no more students who wanted his attention. Then the room darkened and the door flew open a second time. ‘Not again,’ Hans muttered, sitting up.
‘Howdy,’ the ghost said. ‘I have come to show you the person you were meant to become. If only you hadn’t been so stupid as to go to that dull town of nobodies up north. If you had taken a different road, this is what your life would have been like.’
This time, a man reached for him with bony fingers. He was wearing a faded American uniform that reminded Hans of the Civil War. On his back, he carried a musket and his eyes were glassy white, as if he was blind.
Again, Hans tried to tell the ghost he had no regrets going to Groningen, but the ghost was being difficult. He tugged at Hans’ arm and again the world dissolved around him.
At first, he had to blink a few times as everything around him was so bright. When his sight returned, he found himself in a shiny kitchen filled with the most outrageous appliances he had ever seen. While he was gawking at a shocking pink machine which seemed to turn perfectly fine pieces of fruit to a mush, a skeletally skinny woman walked in. Another ghost, Hans assumed, but her heady scent, reminding him of drooping lilies, convinced him otherwise. Once more, he seemed to be invisible. The woman walked right past him to a very fat man who was having some sort of dinner. A pizza, Hans saw, covered with stringy cheese and a pile of salami slices, dripping with fat. Hans shuddered to think how many calories each slice contained.
Somehow the man seemed familiar. He was wearing glasses and the colour of his hair was similar to his own thick locks, still without a trace of grey. But then he noticed the man’s belly. No way he would ever let himself go like that. Then the man started to speak and although what came out of his mouth was a form of English, Hans hardly understood a word. The American twang was so overpowering that he didn’t even try to catch what the man was telling his skeletal wife.
‘This could have been you, you know,’ the ghost whispered in his ear. ‘Look at him. He is a very successful entrepreneur and makes loads of dollars.’
‘How?’ Hans asked, trying to look away but his eyes seemed to be glued to the man’s gums chewing big chunks of pizza.
‘Marketing, AI, you name it,’ the ghost said. ‘He came to the United States as a very young man and took advantage of everything this wonderful country has to offer. Come on, don’t deny you recognize him. He is you if you had taken a different road instead of going to Groningen. You can still be this successful, you know. I have the power to grant you the American dream! You only have to ask and I will make it happen.’
Hans shuddered, suddenly very afraid. This was a nightmare! ‘No thank you very much. Just listen to his pronunciation. It is awful. Please, take me away before I am sick on the floor right here and now.’ ‘Really?’ The ghost seemed disappointed, but he waved his musket and with a bang sounding like a gunshot Hans found himself back in his comfy chair, sighing with relief. That belly, that wife, and even worse, that voice. He closed his eyes, still feeling rather queasy. He really needed to get some sleep, but by now he knew the drill. One more ghost to go, if memory served. But why? Old Scrooge needed the visions the ghosts showed him to repent his evil ways. Surely Hans didn’t need to change his way of life? He was happy as he was, or wasn’t he?
When the room darkened again, he knew what to expect: the ghost of the future. Suddenly, he felt a bit nervous. He didn’t regret the choices he had made in the past and his current situation suited him just fine. But what would the future bring? ‘Hi there!’ a chirpy voice sounded. ‘Ready for some surprises?’ ‘I don’t suppose we could skip this part?’ Hans asked against his better judgement. ‘I would really like the future to be a surprise as it comes along. Peeking ahead doesn’t appeal to me at all.’
The chirpy ghost, with long green tresses wearing a matching green swirling dress, shook her head wildly. ‘You wish! Come along, now, no time to lose!’
Once again, the world started spinning around. Staggering to keep his balance, Hans recognised at once where the ghost had taken him. He was seated on a very familiar bench in the Shakespeare open air theatre of Diever. Overhead the sun was shining brightly down on hundreds of kids, waiting for the play to start. Strangely, it was very quiet. He heard birds sing and the leaves rustling in the friendly summer breeze. Nothing from the kids. They exchanged excited glances but didn’t make a sound. He turned to the ghost, who was hovering beside him.
‘Why are they not talking?’ he asked. ‘I have never seen such a quiet crowd in Diever before.’
‘But they are,’ she replied, ‘but not as you think. Look at those small silvery circles at their temples; they all have implants allowing them to talk telepathically to each other. You can’t hear them, but I can. And I assure you; they are quite noisy!’
Then Hans heard footsteps on the stage and he saw a tall man approaching, his silver-grey hair smooth and his posture still erect in spite of his advanced age. The man looked at the kids and said: ‘Welcome everyone, will you please turn off your implants? You are about to watch a wonderful play. I wat you to listen to what I have to say about he Bard with your ears, and ask me questions with your own voice.’
At once a familiar murmur of excited young voices arose. ‘That’s better,’ ancient Hans said and began to talk about Hamlet.
‘Boring, isn’t it?’ the ghost said quietly. ‘Just imagine having to talk about that play again and again. If I wasn’t dead, I would die of boredom. How sad this is what you have to look forward to.’
Hans ignored her and listened raptly to his older self, touching upon insights into Hamlet’s psyche he hadn’t thought of himself before.
The ghost was tugging his sleeve, impatiently. ‘Fortunately, this dismal future isn’t set in stone. You can avoid all this if you want.’
When Hans didn’t answer, she went on. ‘When you wake up, you will get a phone call. Those people at Diever will ask you to start giving extra lectures to schoolkids during special matinees. So boring. Just say no and all this will never be.’
‘Be quiet,’ Hans snapped, suddenly annoyed, ‘I want to hear what he is telling that young boy over there. It’s amazing how interested these kids are in Shakespeare. Quite refreshing, actually. In spite of those silly implants.’
But the ghost shook her head, put her hand on his shoulder and Diever was gone, back to the future.
‘Now, don’t forget,’ the ghost said before she dissolved in a sparkling pink cloud. ‘Just say no.’
The shrill beeping of his phone woke Hans up with a start. The afternoon sun was turning the living room into a furnace. No wonder he had fallen asleep in his comfy chair. He picked his phone off the floor and saw one of his friends from Diever was calling. Now, what was it he shouldn’t forget? He hesitated for a second, shrugged, and answered the phone. When his friend greeted him cheerfully and told him he had an interesting proposal, Hans remembered the weird dream he had. Did he really wish to go on lecturing about Shakespeare now that he was retired? Then he recalled the rapt faces of future children and their eager questions, and he knew what he was going to do. ‘Yes, of course I will be there. How many kids do you expect? What age? Wonderful. See you soon.’
He had just put down the phone when Willemien came home. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him lounging in his comfy chair. ‘I thought you were going to bake me some scones,’ she said with an indulgent smile.
He smiled. ‘I will, my dear. With or without sultanas?’
While mixing the dough, the dream about the three ghosts gradually faded away. The only thing that stayed with him was a quiet feeling of content. He had always been on the right track and he still was. He popped the scones in the oven and went upstairs to get a book. He suddenly felt like reading a bit of Dickens and settled in his comfy chair, his copy of A Christas Carol in his lap.
Hans Jansen, honorary member of our association, through the years
It was a dark and stormy night… no not really. It was a regular spring evening and Hans was out. His partner Willemien tiptoed to his desk and – like an old-fashioned James Bond in female guise – she photographed some of his old albums. Without him being the wiser, she sent us these lovely pics of Hans Jansen through the years.
