Wednesday, 26 November 2008

Winter Wonderland

It is official! We have no grass left in the back garden. The chickens have eaten it all. They have now resorted to attacking what's left of the shrubbery I got rid of during the late summer (well, I thought I'd got rid of it - however, little green shoots are appearing from the stubby remains - we must have persistent shrubbery).

'It's not looking good for our Winter Wonderland Extravaganza,' says Miggins, squelching around in the mud. 'Not very Christmassy looking is it?' I admit it looks more like a rugby pitch out there. 'However, when Mrs Pumphrey was playing pirates by standing on top of the eglu run and going 'aarrrrrrrrr,' she noticed that the front garden is still looking very lush and verdant,' Miggins continues. 'No way,' I say. 'You are not moving into the front garden. And don't go quoting your chicken rights at me either,' I continue, just as Mrs Miggins opens her beak to quote her chicken rights at me. 'I know you're being represented by Barack Obama, but until he challenges me in the Chicken Supreme High Court, I refuse to budge on my stance.'

Mrs Miggins goes off for a sulk and her second in command, Mrs Poo, takes over. 'The thing is,' she says, 'is that we would like to brighten your miserable little life by putting on a show for you.' Ah, clever, I think. Going for the psychological approach. 'Firstly, Mrs Poo,' I say,'I want you to know that my life is far from miserable. In fact, it's probably the happiest time I've experienced so far.' 'Damn,' mutters Poo. 'Okay, well, we bought a load of Lycra costumes. They'd go to waste if we didn't put on the show. And you know how much you hate waste.' This is true, I think.

'All right,' I say. 'This is what we'll do. You can have your Winter Wonderland Extravaganza on the front lawn for one performance only. All rehearsals have to take place in the back garden.' 'We'll need to have a dress rehearsal on the front lawn. And the ice-rink people will need a couple of days to set up the skating area.' 'What ice-rink people?' I ask. 'And the snow machine will be arriving two days beforehand too, to make sure we've got a good layer for the Toboggan and Ski Slides.' 'What?' I screech. 'Good, that's all sorted then,' says Poo, turning to go. 'Oh, by the way. I've put you down for mulled wine and mince pies. Is that okay? Good!'

Yes, it's official. My miserable little life has been taken over by a bunch of pushy, lunatic hens. And I couldn't be happier.

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