Can you see me?

Mrs Pumphrey is standing very close to the greenhouse, staring intently. 'Morning, Pumphrey,'I say, going out to refill the chicken feeder and water bowl. I give my leg a shake to throw off Mrs Poo who has taken to savaging my ankles every time I step outside the back door. I have told her this is unacceptable behaviour but it is difficult to gauge her response when it is muffled by a beakful of my trousers.
'There's a chicken in the greenhouse,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Oh no,' I think. 'Here we go again.' Mrs Miggins runs over. 'I told you so,' she says, glaring at me. I've been trying to convince her for months that the chicken she has been seeing in the greenhouse is, in fact, her own reflection, but she won't have it. 'Mrs Pumphrey can see the chicken, too,' she says, smug at having her theory proven. 'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'A big white one.' 'Oh it's not white, dear,' says Mrs M. 'I think you'll find it's ginger.' 'It's your reflections,' I yell. 'HowmanytimesdoIhaveto tellyouthis??'
'What's up with her?' asks Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Miggins shrugs. 'Hormones, I expect.'

'Right,' I say. 'I'm having my eyes tested this afternoon and you two are coming with me.' 'An outing - how exciting,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

At two o'clock we find ourselves sitting in Specsavers. Mrs Miggins is playing with a child's plastic shape sorter on the floor and giving evils to any two year old that happens to wander too close. Mrs Pumphrey has found an old copy of 'Hen and Now' and is copying a pattern for a crocheted bobble hat into her notebook.

'If you'd like to come this way,' says the assisant. 'I'm just going to run a couple of pre-tests before the optician sees you.' 'Pre-tests?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'What are they?' 'One is where they shine light into your eye and you have to click a button every time you see a flash, ' I explain, 'and the other is where they puff air into your eye to test your pressures.' 'That doesn't sound very healthy,' says Miggins, having prised herself away from the toy. 'Have you got a plastic brick under your wing?' I ask, eyeing a suspicious looking bulge. 'No,' says Miggins, defensively. She does a tuneless whistle and stares at the ceiling.

Anyway, we have our eyes tested. Mine are fine -no change to my prescription at all but it transpires that both Miggins and Pumphrey need specs for shortsightedness. They are thrilled at this news and immedately set about choosing frames and driving the assistant mad with their indecision about whether to have anti-scratch coating or not. 'Might be a good idea,' Miggins says. 'You know how Mrs Poo goes for our eyes sometimes.' 'They won't stop us scratching up the lawn will they? Being anti-scratch?' says Pumphrey. Miggins assures her they will still be able to wreck the garden more than adequately.

We arrive home, Mrs Pumphrey looking elegant in her rimless pair and Mrs Miggins tres fashionable in her 'Red or Dead' designer jobbies. They immediately test them out in the garden. 'There is still a chicken in the greenhouse,' Miggins says. 'Yes,' agrees Pumphrey. 'Only now they seem much, much bigger.'