Trouble brewing

'I told you it would happen!' screeches Mrs Miggins as she bursts from the Eglu this morning. 'I said there would be trouble with Mrs Poo, and I was right!'

It is just before 7 a.m and the sun is barely scraping the bottom of the sky. Too much trauma too early in the morning, I think. 'What is it? What's happened with Mrs Poo?' I ask as the other three girls emerge, bleary- eyed from the hutch. They look suspiciously like it's the morning after the night before.

'Well,' says Mrs M, leading me by the arm away from the others who are pecking half-heartedly at breakfast. 'We had a gin and Ferrero Rocher party last night and one thing led to another and Mrs Pumphrey ended up reading our fortunes. Then she happened to say she could do past life regressions and we thought 'What the hell, let's give it a go.'

'Okay,' I say, wondering if I've slipped into some kind of parallel universe. 'What happened?'

'I went first, of course and it seems I was an Arabic princess in my last incarnation.' 'That's very exotic,' I say. Mrs Miggins huffs and continues grumpily.'And then Mrs Slocombe had a go and of course, she had to be one better didn't she?' 'Oh?' I say. 'Yes, flippin' Cleopatra, wasn't she? 'Oooo, look at me, I'm the Queen of Egypt,' she says, strutting around the place. Didn't look so good when she got a foot wedged between the roosting bars and ended up on her back with her flannel drawers waving in the air, did she?' says Mrs Miggins. 'Took us ages to lever her out she was giggling so much.'

'And what about Mrs Poo?' I ask. 'Well,' Mrs M says, lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, 'I don't want to cast aspersions but it seems we might have a little dictator in our midst.' She steps back and waits for my reaction. 'A dictator?' I ask. 'Yes. Not mentioning any names but who in history was a small, bossy control freak? Just like Mrs Poo?' 'Attila the Hen?' I suggest, allowing myself a juvenile snigger. 'Be serious,' snaps Mrs M. There is a mug of tea and some crumpets waiting for me indoors and not wanting to get involved in protracted guessing games, I give in.

'Napoleon!' hisses Mrs M. 'Just you watch her today and see if I'm not right.' And she struts off to screech in Mrs Slocombe's poor hungover ear.

Later that afternoon I decide to make the most of the warm sun and take my tea break in the garden. I settle on the garden swing with a mug of tea and do a bit of chicken watching. Mrs Miggins is taking a dust bath in the border next to me, looking like one half of Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr rolling on the beach in 'From Here to Eternity'. Mrs Slocombe is sitting very still under the eucalyptus tree sipping from a vat of Alka Seltzer, her eyes hidden behind some huge sunshades and Mrs Pumphrey is practising what looks like a fairly complicated tapdance routine with cancan interlude. But where is Mrs Poo? Then I hear strange noises coming from the Eglu.

Slowly, I creep over and lift the pop hole cover. Inside I can see Mrs Poo. She is standing in front of a mirror and is using hair gel to form a flat, neat comb over with curly bit on her forehead. She is wearing a military jacket and a pair of riding boots with what look suspiciously like stack heels. Pinned to the wall is a map of the garden with 'World Domination' printed across the top. On the sideboard is a bottle of French Brandy, a snifter already in a tumbler waiting to be drunk. A novelty mini-guillotine paper shredder is on her desk and she is humming along cheerfully to the distant strains of La Marseilles playing on her DAB/CD/MPV player. Carefully, I replace the pop hole cover and sneak away. Mrs Miggins, having completed her toilette, is sitting on the swing awaiting my return.

'Well?' she demands. 'I'm not saying anything, ' I say. 'Not until I get more evidence.'