Mabel in her common gown, her common fawn-coloured Norwich gown kept her secret tucked into her glove.

Mabel came team-handed. Able as she was, she didn’t bleat. Camel meat on her table for her meal to eat, she didn’t blame me. Her tame cat let it be. We met her mate, Able by name who carried a mace and took a cab to abet the rest, but was late. Mabel would never amble when she met a man who made her melt. Meta, in a lace and cable belt, leading a lamb in her lea, beat with éclat and an elm bat at a beam… blam bam! Mabel had to soothe with balm and ale after she had paid the tab. She put on her camblet shawl and went abroad.

A sorry tale.

A BRIEF INTERRUPTED DREAM OF WILFRID PICKLES

It's Mabel at the table as always & let's have the first guess.

Hallo, Sir, and what's the name. Well that's a right fine Yorkshire name.

Oh.

Well, what do you do? You make gloves? Gloves out of camel skin! And
catkins?

Cat skin!

Do you have difficulty getting the skin? Only with the camels? I see. By the
way, I don't think our audience are too happy about that cat skin....

[cut]

Is there much demand for camels' kin gloves?

The sky's the limit? I see.

Tell me, Sir. You say the sky's the limit; but they say, some say, that
there'll soon be men on the moon. Do
you believe that?

You do. I'm glad of that because I do too.

And tell me, will you make moon gloves.

You will if there's an order? Well, that's grand.