The Great Escape

Popped into town this morning to post assorted birthday cards and short story competition entries and on my return I find a chicken wandering in the front garden. For a brief, mad moment I think 'There's a chicken in the front garden who looks exactly like Mrs Miggins.' And then I realise it is Mrs Miggins. 'What are you doing here?' I ask, shepherding her to the safety of the back garden. 'I'm looking for Mrs Bennett,' she says. 'The grass is a lot nicer in the front garden,' she adds, 'how come we aren't allowed to live there?' 'Because,' I say, 'there's a small matter of a main road, cars that ignore traffic calming measures, ninety three maurauding neighbourhood cats, not to mention the foul mouthed little scroats who walk up and down here every day and would think nothing of grabbing hold of you and breaking your legs.' 'Right,' she says, 'so we can't have the nicer grass then?' 'No,' I say firmly. 'And you do know it's just you now, don't you? You do know Mrs Bennett isn't here any more?'

Mrs Miggins frowns and hangs her bonnet on the coat peg. 'What do you mean, she isn't here any more? Of course she is. I saw her this very morning in the greenhouse.' 'No you didn't, Mrs Miggins,' I explain. 'That was your reflection.' 'You mean, the chicken in the greenhouse is me?' 'Well,' I begin, thinking we could be heading for mass confusion here,'it's a representation of what you look like. It's all to do with light and stuff....' Mrs Miggins is still frowning; she clearly thinks I am bonkers. 'How can I be in the greenhouse and outside the greenhouse at the same time?' she asks. 'You can't,' I say. 'Aha!' she declares, like she has caught me out. 'So it is Mrs Bennett in there after all.'

I can tell we are going to have to have THE TALK. No, not that one, the other one. I sit Mrs Miggins down, pour her an Earl Grey and offer her a hobnob. 'You know Mrs Bennett hasn't been around for a couple of days?' I say. 'I know she hasn't been in the Eglu at night, dirty stop out,' says Miggins, spraying biscuit crumbs everywhere. 'And you know she hadn't been well for a while?' I continue doggedly. Mrs Miggins sniffs. 'I think she was attention seeking,' she says, imperiously, 'look at all the digging I did for her. Fetching and carrying, making her bed, filling her hot water bottle at night.' I sigh. 'She had a problem with her lady bits,' I say. 'She was laying eggs inside herself without a shell and they all got stuck together.' Ooooh yuk, that's just disgusting!' interrupts Mrs Miggins. 'And quite frankly a pretty poor excuse for not pulling your weight around the place and hiding in a greenhouse.'

'She's gone to chicken heaven,' I say, making a mad dash for the end of the conversation and reaching for the headache pills. 'Chicken heaven?' asks Mrs Miggins, now on her fourth hobnob. 'Yes, where the corn is golden and the grass is greener,' I say.

'So she is in the front garden then? I knew I was right,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Well, you just tell her that I'm expecting her back immediately. Friday night is bridge night. I've bought Pringles and roasted macadamias and Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Poo will be here at eight to make up a four.'

And with that Mrs Miggins struts off, but not before tucking an extra biscuit or two under her wing for later.

Can you hear this, Mrs Bennett?? I'm going to arrange a seance and you can tell her about chicken heaven yourself. She won't be told by me.