A cold snap

My goodness but it's been chillly around the gorbals these last few days. Actual real snow on Sunday morning which threw everyone into a high old state of excitement. I say 'everyone' - not me, though. I am succumbing to 'fear of slipping over in the winter syndrome', which I know shouldn't be hitting me for another 20 years or so but the sight of a bit of frost or slushy ice sends me into a walking pace of three steps an hour and clinging onto any bit of fence I can get hold of so I don't go tipping base over apex and break my hips.

The arrrival of snow heralds a 'first time ever' experience for the hens. 'Look at me!' shouts Mrs Poo, standing on the frozen water bowl. 'I'm walking on water.' I hate to burst her bubble but I don't want Mrs Poo developing Messianic delusions, especially as she already thinks she's the reincarnation of Napoleon's chicken, Josephen. 'Did Napoleon have a chicken?' I asked when she revealed this fascinating nugget of information to me .'Of course,' she said. 'It's a well known fact that Jospehen virtually ran the country for him.'

Anyway, I peel Mrs Poo from the top of the waterbowl and explain about how, when water molecules freeze, they expand and ice is formed. She looks at me like I'm mad. Andy pours warm water into their bowl which immediately takes Mrs Pumphrey's fancy. 'Any chance of chucking in a bag of Earl Grey with that?' she asks. Mrs Miggins is standing next to Mrs Slocombe (or 'call me Betty' as she now prefers to be called), picking snowflakes off her black feathers as they land. 'What ARE you doing?' asks Betty Slocombe, whose patience extends considerably further than the other hens but not this far. 'Dandruff, dear,' says Miggins. 'Hold still.'

'It's not dandruff,' I explain. 'It's snow.' 'Don't listen to her,' says Poo. 'She's just told me some drivel about water going stiff when it expands.' 'Really?' says Betty Slocombe. 'Well, that just reminds me of...'

'Okay,' I interrupt, sensing a double entrendre appearing on the horizon. 'It's just winter setting in, that's all. It gets cold, wet and icy in this season.' 'Aah,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'now seasons I understand. It's time to go shopping for our winter wardrobes, girls.' And off they go, immediately distracted by the thought of some retail therapy.

They return several hours later, in a taxi, laden with shopping bags. 'We've decided,' says Miggins, after they have done a fashion parade for me to show off their winter fashions (apparently loon pants are very 'in' this year) 'to have a Winter Wonderland Extravaganza.' 'That sounds exciting,' I say. 'It will be,' says Miggins. 'Of course, we have to learn to iceskate first and rig up the lighting and laser system. But you'll love it.' And off she bustles, Mrs Poo and Mrs Slocombe in tow and chattering excitedly. Mrs Pumphrey loiters. 'Are you okay?' I ask. 'Well,' she says, standing close and whispering. 'I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but I'm a bit worried about the Lycra.' 'The Lycra?' I ask. 'In our skating costumes,' says Pumphrey. 'I mean, it's all right for Mrs Miggins; she's got hips like a racing snake, but me? Well, you know...'

I nod. I know exactly what she means. To some of us Lycra is a cruel mistress. 'I tell you what you need,' I say. 'What's that?' asks Pumphrey. 'Big pants.' 'Big pants?' 'Big pants,' I confirm. 'Pop on a pair of big pants under your skating outfit and you'll be as sleek as the rest.' 'And you're sure this will work?' asks Pumphrey. 'Oh yes,' I say. 'Trust me, I know.' 'How?' asks Mrs Pumphrey.

I stand back. 'Now that, I'm afraid, is something I cannot reveal,' I say. Mrs Pumphrey studies me carefully. A glint of understanding passes between us. She nods sagely. 'I understand,' she says.