The wing of peace

Misses' Pumphrey, Poo and Slocombe have made a momentous discovery which is that Mrs Miggins can only chase one of them at any given time. This means that if they split off in separate directions, one of them can provide a distraction whilst the other two get on with chickeny stuff like eating, drinking and preening. Also, Mrs Pumphrey has displayed the ability to fling herself in great leaps across the garden attaining a quite spectacular height and her aerial acrobatics really throw Mrs Miggins into a tizz. (Don't tell Andy though, or we'll find ourselves surrounded by an 18 foot barbed wire enclosure by the time the week is out.)

Going outside to bring in the washing at lunchtime, I find Mrs Miggins has retired to the end of the garden, exhausted by the three way relay marathon the others have been leading her all morning. She is taking time out to work on her neo-classical sculpture, although the light drizzle that has started is doing nothing for the consistency of her clay and Dionysius's firkin is looking a bit droopy. 'It's coming along though, isn't it?' I say encouragingly, as I fold Andy's underpants into the laundry basket. 'Yes, it's not bad, not bad at all,' says Mrs Miggins, wiping her wings on her apron. 'Although I'm not sure about the firkin.' 'It'll perk up,' I say. 'Don't give in. It's definitely one for the Turner Prize.'

Mrs Miggins seemed cheered by this. 'I've had a thought,' she says. 'About how me and the newcomers can bond better.' 'Oh yes?' I say. 'I thought we could go on a spa day,' says Mrs M. 'What do you think?' I ponder the suggestion and wonder why it is that I always find a wet sock stuck in a corner of a mostly dry duvet cover. 'What, like all girls together for saunas and facials?' I say. Mrs Miggins nods. 'I've booked the four of us into Fowl Play for one of their 'Hen, Will We Treat You Again?' pamper days. You get a pedicure, a facial, a bum fluff and a comb wax.' 'And lunch?' I ask, as this is one of the most important aspects of a pamper day. 'That was extra,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I put it on your credit card. You don't mind, do you?' she finishes, with a look in her eye that dares me to disagree. 'No, no, that's fine,' I say, hurriedly, happy that she is making an effort on the team-building front.

'We're going on a pamper day,' says Mrs Pumphrey, full of glee as this is very much up her street. 'Pah!' says Mrs Slocombe who, if consulted on these matters would rather have gone paintballing. 'You could get your moustache waxed,' says Mrs Poo. 'How many times do I have to tell you,' snaps Mrs Slocombe, 'it is not a moustache. It is merely the shadow cast by my comb onto my upper beak.' 'Your comb hasn't grown yet,' Mrs Poo points out. 'That's a point,' says Mrs Miggins, who has crept up and is listening to the conversation. Of course, she is in possession of a vibrant and positively rigid appendage, the days of non-comb now far behind her. 'But don't worry,I think you can substitute the comb wax for another treatment if you like.'

Mrs Pumphrey leaps eight feet across the garden in excitement. 'Ooh, lovely!' she shrieks. 'I'm going to have my tail feathers primped. What about you, Mrs Slocombe?' Mrs S. thinks carefully. It's been a wet day for free-ranging and the grass in the back garden is long and tickly on her under feathers. 'I think,' she says, 'I might brave a Brazilian.'

'I wonder if there will be a Jacuzzi?' says Mrs Poo.