Chickens in Need

Today is Children in Need day. And I am reliably informed that there is, in the world of poultry, a parallel day called Chickens in Need.

'Are you sure you really need a 'Chicken in Need' day,' I say, as I am harrassed on my own back door step by four hens clutching sponsor forms. 'You're not really 'in need' are you? Not like battery hens for example, who live on a space the size of a postage stamp and never get to see the light of day in their short, sad lives.' Four pairs of beady eyes look at me. It is Mrs Poo who speaks up first. 'Well, 'she says, 'Mrs Miggins will need a new coat to see her through winter if she keeps moulting at this rate. She's practically bald.' 'She is nowhere near bald,' I say. 'Just thinning in places. ' 'And Mrs Pumphrey will need waterproofs trousers to keep her lovely white feathers clean. She's getting to tall to peck the grass without kneeling down now,' continues Poo. I agree that Mrs Poo has a point. Mrs Pumphrey is becoming quite Amazonian in her proportions. 'And we'll need an indoor dustbath for winter,' interrupts Mrs Slocombe. 'You can't possibly expect us to use the outdoor one in this chilly weather.'

'I still think you do pretty well, ' I say. 'You have a nice home with guest accommodation, a constant supply of good quality food and a maid to do your cleaning.' 'Who's that then?' asks Miggins. She sneezes and a few more feathers go flying into the air. 'Me,' I say. 'Not to mention Andy, your in-house entertainment system.' 'That's true,' concedes Mrs Pumphrey. 'Andy is very entertaining. Especially on his unicycle.' 'I'm not keen on the bedtime stories though,' says Poo. 'There's only so much Doctor Who and HP Lovecraft a hen can stomach. Perhaps you could have a word with him about it?' 'I'll do no such thing,' I say. 'Andy is very stressed at the moment. He doesn't need you lot causing him aggravation, too.' 'Are his feathers falling out?' asks Miggins, who feels she is becoming a bit of an authority on stress- related illnesses since her moult started. 'No, ' I say. 'But the homemade wine is disappearing at a faster rate than usual.'
'That's not a good sign,' says Slocombe. 'So no chance of a bit of bedtime Jeffrey Archer or Enid Bylton, then?' says Poo. 'Absolutely not,' I say. 'And I'll thank you not to mention those two names in the same sentence in future.'

'How about if you sponsor us anyway and we donate the money we raise to this Children in Need thing?' says Mrs Slocombe who, out of all the hens, is the one with the most thoughtful nature.
'Okay,' I say. ' That sounds reasonable. What kind of sponsored event are you planning?' At this point, Mrs Poo becomes almost ecstatic with excitement. 'You know that black and white tom cat that makes an occasional appearance in the garden. The one with the slightly off-centre Hitler moustache?' 'Mr Hilter?' I say. 'That's him,' confirms Poo. 'Well, we've captured him! We're going to tie him to the rotary washing line and spin it around then time him to see how long it takes for him to either fall off or projectile vomit. Person with the nearest guess wins the prize.'

I am shocked. 'You can't do that!' I say. 'That's animal cruelty.' 'He's a cat. We are birds. The cat is the natural enemy of the bird,' says Mrs Poo. 'I don't care,' I say. 'You are to release Mr Hilter IMMEDIATELY.' 'Immediately?' says Poo. 'Immediately,' I say and the four of them trundle off muttering things like 'it was only for charity,'and 'she always spoils our fun.'
I wait until I see Mr Hilter hightailing it from the Eglu and across the garden. I don't expect he'll be back in a hurry, I think. As an afterthought, I call over to the hens. 'What was the prize going to be?' I ask. They all look at me and Mrs Poo marches over like a hen in a strop.

'An egg,' she says. 'Not that you care, you charity thief, you.'