New Year's Resolutions

I never thought deciding on a list of New Year Resolutions would be as brain-taxing as it has been. So complacent have I become wheeling out the same old ones year after year (stop biting nails, lose weight and avoid road rage) that I've had a real job deciding what to attempt in 2009. The hens, back from their Christmas break in Austria have had no such problems. They present me with their list, along with a big bag of washing. 'Didn't they have a washing machine in your luxury chalet?' I ask, knowing full well they did because I saw the brochure. 'Of course' says Mrs Poo. 'You didn't expect us to use it, though, did you? Not with all the other luxury facilities at our disposal. The washing machine was last on our list of priorities.'

I sigh and empty the pile of chicken smalls, lingerie and winter woolies into the machine. 'Delicates wash, please,' says Miggins sternly. 'I know the labels say 'machine washable' but you can't be too certain with silk, cashmere and angora.' 'I suppose not,' I say. 'What have you done with your ski suits? I hope you haven't just rolled them up in balls and stashed them in the attic like you did your sleeping bags after your summer camping trip. I found a whole cow pat in one of them. It wasn't nice.'

'I don't suppose it was,' says Mrs Slocombe, sympathetically. 'Poor you.' I narrow my eyes at her. I suspect it was her sleeping bag that contained the offending cow poop. She's developed some very odd habits since arriving chez nous. Anyway, I unfold the list of Hen Resolutions and read as Mrs Pumphrey whisks up five mugs of hot chocolate using real Austrian chocolate from real Austria.
'What do you think?' asks Miggins when I finally stop choking. 'Well,' I say, 'I think Mrs Slocombe's plan to stop feather eating is an excellent idea.' Betty has persisted with this habit and the other three girls are losing their fluffy bottom cushions at an alarming rate. And let's face it, in this freezing weather, a girl needs all the bum fluffage she can get. 'And I like the idea of Mrs Poo cutting back on her Fascist/Marxist tendencies.' 'I have other irons in the political fire I want to try out,' says Poo. 'For example?' I ask. 'I thought I might give woolly-minded liberalism a go,' says Poo. 'I suppose you'll be wanting to change newspapers?' I ask. Poo nods. 'Guardian, please.' I make a note to call the newsagent. 'You'll miss the Daily Mail,' I warn. 'No,' says Mrs Poo. 'The sudokus are becoming far too easy.'
'What about mine, what about mine?' says Mrs Pumphrey excitedly. 'Hmmm,' I say. 'Are you sure extreme egg-laying is the right thing for you?' 'Of course!' exclaims Pumphrey. 'I have a list of places I intend to lay an egg before 2009 is over.' She hands me a second list. I read out loud - 'Top of a cupboard, on a bus, in Harrods Food Hall and whilst surfing on a ironing board in Cornwall.' 'I'm sooooo excited,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'That will probably help,' I say.

And Miggins? Miggins the Sensible, the Wise, the Intelligent? 'I'm going to stop biting my nails, lose some weight and avoid road rage,' she declares.

Ah, I think. Now there's a hen after my own heart.