The Art of Perfume Part 2

There is a bit of a kerfuffle going on in the garden. 'Oi!' calls Tybalt from his vantage point in the conservatory. 'Come and have a butchers at this.' I reprimand him. 'Firstly, I am not 'oi' and secondly you are not a Cockney cat. You are a Scouse cat. If anything you should be saying 'eh?eh?' I say. 'Whatever,' says Tybalt. 'Just come and have a look, will you?' Right, he's straight off to the Paw Bonne to get his manners polished, I think crossly. Anyway, as it isn't often he shows much interest in what's happening outside, I go to see what has drawn his attention.

Mrs Pumphrey is standing on top of the compost bin wearing six inch stilettoes. They could be Choos, they could be Manolos, I don't know. She is shrouded in chiffon which is being blown around in an artistic manner by means of Mrs Miggins pointing a huge fan in her direction. Mrs Slocombe is sulking by the greenhouse wearing dark glasses and a headscarf, looking like a cross between Audrey Hepburn and Bridget Jones; I can't see Mrs Poo, but there are strains of the 'Red Flag' being played on the harmonica coming from the Eglu so I assuming she is holding one her meetings which would explain her demand for a bottle of retsina and a dozen coconut macaroons earlier this morning.

'What are you doing?' I yell from the back door. Mrs Pumphrey falls off the compost bin in surprise which causes Mrs Slocombe to snigger. 'We're practising the commercial before the film crew arrive,' explains Mrs Miggins, switching off the fan. 'Film crew?' I ask. 'I thought it was going to be me with a camcorder?' 'Oh, the campaign has become much bigger than that,' says Mrs Pumphrey, wading her way across the increasingly muddy lawn and giving Mrs Slocombe a kick as she passes. 'We've decided to hire the professionals.' 'Oh really?' I say. 'And the point of the fan?' 'It's all to do with creating an atmosphere,' says Miggins. 'It's October,' I point out. 'Couldn't you use the natural wind? It'd be cheaper.'

Mrs Pumphrey sniffs. 'Well, yes, we could. If you want us to create a piece of film noire that looks cheap and shoddy.' ' Film noire?' I say. 'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I've been exploring the genre of French existentialism and I think it would create the perfect feel for my perfume advert.'

'Existentialism, smenshialism,' mocks Mrs Slocombe from the greenhouse. 'What's up with her?' I ask. 'She was making far too many demands for an extra,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'You know, things like only being shot in profile from the right, twelve bichon frises dressed as clowns in her dressing room, silk covered roosting perch. I told her it wouldn't matter which profile we shot her from, she'd still look like Gerald Depardieu with his nose caught in a pencil sharpener.'

I make the mistake of laughing. 'This is my career!' shrieks Mrs Slocombe. 'You're going to have to pay for rhinoplasty for me. And therapy.'

'Therapy, schmerapy,' I shriek back. I am very fond of Mrs Slocombe but really, she can be the limit sometimes. I return my attention to Pumphrey. 'Nice shoes, by the way. Choos or Manolos?' 'Pete's,' she says. 'Tango Pete?' I say. Mrs P. nods. 'He does a drag act every other weekend. These are his Mae West shoes.'

I close the back door and let the girls get on with it. Tybalt has curled up in a ball in his basket. He has a very short attention span. He lifts his head and watches me with sleepy eyes. 'Well?' he says. 'They're bonkers,' I say. 'Quite bonkers.'

'Must be catching,' he says.