'...and me, Daisy Chain Lovemelovemenot...' says Daisy.
'...and on today's show we have a very special guest, especially in the light of the exciting news of the last week regarding a certain baby...' says Primrose.
'What's that, then?' says Daisy. 'What baby? Cousin Tess hasn't been at it again, has she? How many chicks is it now? 245? 246? Is she still with Dave? Is it Dave? I lose track, really I do...'
There is a slight scuffle and the camera man (actually Tango Pete, who is currently in training for the new series of Strictly Come Dancing and needs the extra cash for new spangly hotpants) winces as Primrose's microphone connects sharply with Daisy's ear.
'As my silly friend knows only too well, ahahahahahaha, I am referring to the new Royal baby, Wee George...'
'They've called him Wee?' says Daisy. 'We're going to have a King Wee?'
Primrose, the consummate TV professional, shoves Daisy off-camera with a subtle slight of wing, and continues stoically.
'And to continue the Royal theme, I'd like to welcome our guest today...Lady Malarkey!'
'I'm not Royalty,' I say, 'and what are you doing? Where did you get that enormous camera?'
'The enormous camera shop,' says Primrose. 'And the microphone, before you ask, came from Daisy's My Little Simon Cowell Pop Star Kit. Now, can you, for the purpose of the exercise, at least pretend to be Royal? We, that is the idiot white one and me, are trying to launch a new cutting edge chat show.'
'Well,' I say, 'I am visiting Buckingham Palace tomorrow.'
'That'll do!' says Primrose. 'Now, I need you to tell us about a scandal. Something awful that has happened to you, that has damaged you mentally but not physically, because we still want to be fed every day and because of our lack of prehensile thumbs we may have a problem getting the lid off the food bucket.'
'What?' I say. I have to say at this point I am being distracted somewhat from potential television stardom because I have another 6lbs of blackcurrants staring at me awaiting Something Useful To Be Done to them, but really, how many jars of jam does a pantry need?
'A scandal. We need a scandal. It'll pull up the audience figures,' says Primrose.
'And what is the current figure for your audience?' say I.
'Sightly round,' chips in Daisy, who is either wearing an enormous pair of earphones or doing a pretty ropey impersonation of Minnie Mouse. 'Too many doughnuts.'
Primrose persists. 'Scandal!' she snaps. 'Now!'
Primrose is a very demanding hen.
'I'm sorry,' I say. 'I can't think that I have done anything scandalous, per se. I am a fairly conservative and generally well-behaved person.'
'Okay,' says Primrose. 'What has happened so far today?'
I pause and think.
'This isn't making great TV,' shouts Daisy, who is now stationed behind the camera with Tango Pete and probably causing a scandal of her own if the unnecessary giggling is anything to go by.
'Well, I got up, fed you and the cats, went and bought a newspaper, had breakfast, put in a load of washing, did the ironing from yesterday, did half an hour weeding in the front garden...' I begin.
'BORING!' shouts Primrose.
'...found three cucumbers in the greenhouse,' I continue. 'Oh, and some bloomin' caterpillars have eaten my pak choi.That was quite distressing.'
'Ah!' says Primrose. 'That sounds more promising. Is Tango Pete getting it, Daisy?'
'I should say so!' giggles Daisy.
'Oh good grief,' says I. A microphone dabs impatiently at my chin.
'So what is this 'pak choi'?' says Primrose. 'An exotic and rare orchid? A cherished plant passed down through generations of your Royal family and now gone forever leaving a scar on your heart?'
'It's cabbage. Basically.'
'Cabbage. Chinese cabbage. Good in stir fries.'
Primrose sighs. 'You're going to have to put a more exciting spin on this. No-one is interested in cabbage.'
'I am!' shouts Daisy. 'I love cabbage, me! Savoy, January King, Hispi, Wispi, Boilerhead and Dollop...'
'You made up those last three, didn't you?' I say.
'Yup!' says Daisy.
'Can we concentrate?' says Primrose, through gritted teeth. 'Please? Tell me more about this pak choi.'
'Okay,' I say. 'I found a packet of pak choi seeds which must have been a couple of years old. I thought, what the heck, never grown them before, like a stir fry, nothing to lose, pop 'em in the compost and see what happens.'
Primrose adopts a look of motherly concern.
'And what did happen?' she says. 'Once you had planted those withered seed tenderly in the finest compost money could buy? Did you nurture them day and night? Feed them, weed them, water them and sing to them?'
'No,' I say.
'That's marvellous,' sighs Primrose. 'And to no avail. All that input and not a green leaf in sight.'
'I ignored them,' I said. 'And four plants emerged. I was quite excited. A first for the Much Malarkey Manor greenhouse.'
'And then what happened?' said Primrose, her brain still scrambling for an unusual angle, like obtuse or reflex.
'They grew and grew and last week actually looked like the ones you buy in Sainsbugs for quite a lot of money for what is, essentially, a cabbage with an odd name,' I say. 'I thought, I must harvest thosepak choi. They are ready for consumption.'
A light goes on in a little chicken brain...
'But you didn't, did you?' accuses Primrose. 'You left those precious pak choi to grow on. And what happened? Go on, tell the audience!'
'The butterflies came...' I say.
'Yes!' says Primrose. 'The butterflies came, ladies and gentlemen. The butterflies came and they laid their eggs and the eggs turned into caterpillars and then what, Lady Malarkey? What? What?'
'THE CATERPILLARS ATE MY PAK CHOI!' I sob, because this is what reality TV does to a sane person. It turns them into a snivelling, drivelling wreck with pak choi issues.
'Yes, ladies and gentlemen!' crows Primrose (well, didn't really crow, because that would be unnatural behaviour in a lady hen). 'Because of this lady's blatant horticultural neglect, CATERPILLARS ATE HER PAK CHOI!'
'All right,' I say, wiping my nose on a passing cat, probably Tybalt, but he and Phoebe are both black and white and furry so it is sometimes difficult to tell. 'You enjoyed them, though. Didn't you?'
'What?' says Primrose.
'Your elevenses,' I say, sensing an imminent table turning TV victory. 'Pak choi with caterpillar croutons.'
'We ate the caterpillar wrecked pak choi?' says Primrose.
'Yup,' I say. 'Only don't tell the Caterpillar Mummy at Countryside Tales. Or she'll come and getcha! Now kindly remove yourself and your scandal. I have a hippo to finish knitting.'