Proost and Salmon Motions

'I think we should choose a different book to study in our book club,' said Mrs Miggins, throwing 'A La Recherche de Temps Perdu' down in disgust. 'How about 'Ulysses' by James Joyce. 'No good for me,' I say. 'I've never managed to get past page 24 and I refuse to waste any more of my life trying to get to page 25.' 'Anna Karenina?' suggests Mrs Slocombe. 'Read it,' says Mrs Poo. 'Twice.' Several more titles of worthy literary tomes are bandied about and we settle on 'Five Go To Smuggler's Rock.'
'How come some people achieve fame through writing such tripe?' said Mrs Miggins as we by-pass the discussion on 'A La Recherche...' in favour of banana muffins and hot chocolate. 'I mean, take that Salmon Rushdie. You'd think someone named after a fish would come up with something a bit exciting, wouldn't you?' 'It's Salman,' Mrs Pumphrey corrected. 'He gets very cross when people make fish jokes in his presence.' 'Oh yeah?' says Miggins. 'How do you know?' 'I attended a literary luncheon with him once. He said he needed a companion, I wasn't doing anything so said I'd go along. It was very illuminating. The Poet Laureate was guest speaker.' 'Oh yes?' says Miggins, because she likes a bit of poetry. 'Yes. Unfortunately, we had to leave when Salman asked him in the post- talk questions how long it had been before he realised there was poetry in Motion. Andrew jumps up and shouts, 'Shut up, Salmon face,' and it all went down hill from there. We had to be smuggled out through the kitchens under a blanket.'

I am containing a snigger inside my hot chocolate mug. Nothing cheers me up more than hearing of supposed literary giants brawling in public like five-year-olds. 'If only Martin Amis had been there to join in,' I think. 'My joy would have known no bounds.'

'Anyway,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Back to my original question. How do you get to be famous?' 'That wasn't your original question,' I say. 'It's a more pertinent substitute,' says Miggins. 'Okay,'I say. 'In answer to your more pertinent substitute question, I have no idea how one achieves fame.' 'I think infamy is better,' chips in Mrs Slocombe, having recovered from her sulk that followed our rejection of her suggestion of Virginia Woolf's 'Mrs Dalloway.' 'You could be right,' I say. 'After all, there is that saying that well-behaved women rarely make history.' 'Quite,' says Poo. 'Does that apply to chickens?'

I give the matter some thought. 'I should think so,' I say. 'Why? Are you wanting your fifteen minutes of fame?' 'I want more than fifteen minutes,' scoffs Mrs Miggins. 'I want a lifetime of it.'
'And do you have any plans on how to achieve your lifetime of fame?' I ask. 'Absolutely,' says Miggins. 'I'm going to start a burlesque dance group called 'The Chicken and Asparagus Tarts.' Then I'm going to flirt outrageously with, oh, I don't know, a TV presenter maybe - and get myself involved in a slanderous scandal whereby I shall come across as the injured party, get myself some good publicity and jump on the celebrity bandwagon with a series of autobiographies, interviews, tasteful merchandise and public appearances opening supermarkets.' 'We've already got the perfume,' points out Mrs Pumphrey, squirting a dash of 'Poulet' behind her ears and knees.

'Oh, so you're all in it are you?' I ask. 'This burlesque group?' 'Safety in numbers,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'And we thought we could release a girl band record. We're quite keen to do a cover of 'Hen Will I See You again.' 'The old Diana Ross and The Supremes song?' I ask. 'That's the one,' says Slocombe. 'We've got the questions. I'm going to be Diana Ross.'

'I don't think so,' says Miggins. 'I'm Diana Ross. ' 'No,' interjects Mrs Poo. 'I'm Diana Ross...'

I slip away quietly, leaving them to it. Suddenly, 'Ulysses,' has become an attactive option to reality. I'll give it another go, I think. Over the salmon we've got for tea.'