The Art of Perfume Part 3

The clocks have gone back meaning that the mornings will be lighter again albeit only for a couple of weeks. This means I have to rise a little earlier to open the hen house. So, up at 6.15 this morning, I stumble downstairs in my overly long dressing gown( note to self: must get a new one before this one kills me. ''It woz 'er dressing gown wot done 'er in'' is not a good epitaph for one's gravestone) and go to let the girls out. On my return I find a handwritten note on the doormat. I open it. It says '8 teas, 9 coffees. Teas all white, 6 with 2 sugars, 1 with 3, and 1 with a sugar substitute if you have it. Coffees - 4 black, 5 white (1 of white just a splash, thanks). No sugar in black except 2 if you have sugar substitute, others 3 with 1 spoon and 2 with 2. 9 bacon sarnies, 4 blueberry muffins, 3 rounds of toast........'and a partridge in a pear tree,' sings Andy, appearing behind me, yawning and scratching in a dressing gown that is way too short.

'What's this?' I demand. I don't do maths at the best of times and certainly not first thing in the morning in response to scruffy notes shoved through my letterbox. 'There appears to be a film crew on the front lawn,' said Andy, opening the door and stretching. A passing makeup girl squeals. 'I told you your dressing gown was too short,' I say. 'And I am not spending my day providing non-stop tea, coffee, sandwiches and muffins.'

The flap to the letterbox lifts and a pair of shifty eyes peers through. It is Mrs Miggins. 'Oi!' she clucks, which is never a good way to begin a conversation with me. 'The crew can't get started on filming until they've had breakfast. So, when you're ready, love.' The letterbox snaps shut. I look at Andy. 'Did one of our chickens just call me 'love?' I say. Andy nods. 'I believe,' he says, 'that she is assuming film crew vernacular.' 'Oh she is, is she?' I say.

I open the front door. Miles of cables are spreading tentacle-like from several lorries that squat like giant octopuses (?)....octopus's(?)....octopi(?)..... octopinium (?)......squid on the only bit of lawn chez nous that still looks half decent. I step outside looking for someone who might be in charge of this chaos. Andy, still yawning and stretching, steps out behind me, the makeup girl squeals again, I shove him back inside until he gets the length of his dressing gown sorted.

Scanning the scene of hustle and bustle, I catch glimpses here and there of four excited chickens in various states of hair/dress/make-up ensemblage. They are being pampered and feted like Hollywood starlets. Mrs Miggins is sharing a Galloise with the director (I am glad to see hers remains unlit). She is clucking coquettishly and twirling a girly toe in the grass. Mrs Pumphrey is being levered into a stunning chiffon and lace ballgown - the dresser is telling her that no, she isn't too fat at all, she is amply curvacious and it is all the rage these days to be amply curvacious. Mrs Slocombe is having her claws painted a ravishing shade of scarlet by a fey young man called Gok who is flirting outrageously with her, causing her to blush furiously and giggle in a most un-Mrs Slocombe-like manner. And Mrs Poo? Mrs Poo is sitting in front of a huge mirror surrounded by lightbulbs. Her eyes are wide open, having just had massive false lashes fitted and the hairdresser is primping her comb whilst discussing the finer points of the Marxist manifesto. Mrs Poo is in heaven. All the hens are in heaven. I feel like a harbinger of doom and go inside without saying a word.

'Put the kettle on,' I say to Andy. 'Have we got any bacon?'