Settling in

There is a knock on the back door. It is Mrs Miggins. 'Can you tell me,' she begins, 'why the newcomers are keeping their distance?' Well, that's a good sign, I think. At least she's stopped calling them 'the intruders'. 'I think it may have something to do with your attitude towards them,' I reply tentatively, for Mrs M is a sensitive soul. 'What do you mean 'my attitude?' she demands. 'I don't have an attitude.'

I pause before I reply, aware that I need to be careful what I say or there won't be any eggs for a week. 'Maybe you should stop herding them back into the run every time they try coming out into the garden,' I suggest. I can see Mrs Miggins is trying to get her brain around this by the way she is frowning. Either that or there's a giant poop on its way. 'Mrs Slocombe shouted at me,' she says. 'You shouted at her first,' I point out, having witnessed the yelling match between them earlier. 'And Mrs Pumphrey keeps trying to eat exactly the same piece of grass that I want to eat,' she says. 'There is more than enough grass space to go around,' I say.'You should share, rather than trying to fence off areas with picket fencing.' 'Well, what about Mrs Poo?' Mrs M demands. I can tell she is struggling to maintain her side of the argument. 'What about her?' I say. 'Well, nothing yet. Apart from her stupid name. But there will be something soon, you mark my words,' says Mrs M, tapping the side of her beak in a 'voice of doom' kind of way.

I sigh. As far as I can tell, the new girls are being thoroughly inoffensive. They are keeping their heads down, deferring to Mrs Miggins in all aspects of the 'Who Is Boss?' game, including who gets the nestbox at night. They have recognised her without doubt as top hen in the pecking order.

'They're just being chickens,' I say. 'Like you.' 'Like me?' asks Mrs Miggins. She seems oddly startled by this news. 'I think you'll find, my dear, that I am no more a chicken than you are.'
I give a little laugh. 'You are a chicken, Mrs Miggins,' I assure her. 'I am not,' says Mrs Miggins, hotly. 'I am the owner of a pie shop in Regency England.' 'No you aren't, ' I say. 'You are named after the fictional owner of a pie shop in Regency England. But you are a chicken.'

Mrs Miggins raises herself to her full height -all 14 inches of it. 'Young woman,' she says (which thrills me, given I am fast approaching my 43rd birthday), 'I am Mrs Miggins, pie shop proprietor extraordinaire and if you'll excuse me I have a vat of vegetables on the simmer and some puff pastry in the fridge awaiting its third rolling and folding.' And with a big huff and a poop (it seems she wasn't thinking after all), she turns and takes herself off to the Eglu, giving Mrs Poo a bit of a look as she passes by.

'What's the matter with her?' says Mrs Poo to Mrs Slocombe. 'Delusions of grandeur,' Mrs Slocombe declares. 'And I hope she tastes that pie filling before she puts it in the pastry cases. There's not nearly enough pepper for my liking.' 'I've rolled and folded that batch of pastry in the fridge,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Do you think Mrs Miggins will appreciate the gesture?' 'Of course,' says Mrs Poo. 'What a nice thing to do. Hopefully, she will realise we just want to be friends.' 'Speak for yourself,' snorts Mrs Slocombe.

Ten minutes later there is another knock on the door. 'Yes, Mrs Miggins,' I say. She looks cross. 'I want you to know that I've just taken my pastry from the fridge and found this in it.' She holds aloft a feather.

'It's a feather,' I say. 'Yes,' she says, triumphantly. 'A feather. One of your so-called 'chickens' '(and she does that little scribing- commas- in- the- air thing with her wings) 'has been fiddling with my pies. And I want to know which one it is. I need to have words with them.' I take the feather. It is ginger. 'Well?' demands Mrs M, flapping her ginger wings in agitation, ginger wings that are the same ginger as the feathery evidence. 'Go and look in the mirror,' I say. 'You'll find your answer there.'

Ten minutes later there is another knock on the door. 'I am a chicken, aren't I?' says a contrite Miggins. I nod. 'Just the same as them?' she says. I nod again. Miggins turns to walk away, then pauses. 'But I am the best chicken, aren't I?

'Yes, ' I say, with a fond smile. 'You are very definitely the best chicken.'