Psycho penguins part 2

The psycho penguins, Kev and Stella, continued their reign of terror well into this week until Mrs Miggins decided to take them in hand. I have confided in the hens about the sleepless nights, the fear of waking to find a deranged penguin standing over us in the small hours wielding a sharp tin opener and the blood curdling random call of 'I love you...Meeeeeeeeeerry Christmas...ding a ling a ling,' and finally, Miggins declared she'd had enough of my pathetic moaning.
'Just throw them out,' she says. 'Pick 'em up and sling 'em out into the snow.' 'There is no snow,' I point out. 'Okay, into the mud then,' says Miggins. 'There's plenty of that.' 'I'll say,' I say. The trouble is, though, once penguins know you're out to get them with an eviction notice, they turn nasty. Don't be fooled by all the cute pictures on Christmas cards. Penguins have no fear and no conscience and there was no way I could get close enough to them to chuck them out as Miggins suggested. I even tried grabbing them with one of those grabber sticks favoured by chair-bound old ladies for prodding their grandchildren with.
'I'll deal with them,' says Miggins this morning, rolling up her sleeves and pushing past me into the living room where Kev and Stella are currently holed up like Swampy the road protester up the Christmas tree (only without the dreadlocks). I cower in the hallway nervously picking a piece of tinsel to shreds. Tybalt sits at my feet surrepticiously eating the bits of tinsel as they fall to the carpet. He then sicks them up very loudly and unsurrepticiously all over my Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer slippers that make an appearance this time of year. 'Thanks, Tybalt,' I say. 'You're welcome,' says Tybalt. 'At least I missed the carpet.' I sigh. I suppose I must be grateful for small mercies.
In the living room, negotiations are hotting up. Occasional bursts of cackling punctuate a tense silence. I then hear sounds of a minor tussle, a burst of 'I love you...Meeeeeeeeerry Christmas! Ding a ling a ling,' then Miggins lets out a huge squawk and bursts through the door looking very pleased with herself.
'Well?' I ask. 'Low self-esteem,' announces Miggins. 'That's their problem. Coupled with a degree of ego-centricity and a mother who ran off with a walrus and left them in the care of their one-legged father when they were still eggs.' 'I see,' I say, not seeing at all. 'So what do we do next?' 'We?' says Miggins, looking at my sodden Rudolph slippers and the pile of cat-vomited tinsel shreddings. 'I think you'll find I did all the work. Don't you go trying to pinch the glory.' 'All right,' I say. 'Keep your comb on. What I meant was, what's next?' 'I've invited them to guest star in the Winter Wonderland Extravaganza next week. That's all they need. A bit of instant stardom. Then we'll take them out for a sardine supper and they'll be on their way.'
'Thank heavens,' I say. 'Thank Miggins,' says Miggins. 'Is the Extravanganza going well?' I ask. 'So so,' says Miggins. 'Tango Pete slipped a disc in the 'Fight of the Iceflow,' scene which is why I had a spare slot for Kev and Stella. He'll be okay for the finale though. It'll all downhill skiing. No bending.'
'So Kev and Stella are going to do the 'Fight of the Iceflow' scene then?' I ask. 'Don't be ridiculous,' says Miggins. 'They're far too short. 'Fight of the Iceflow will have to be replaced by 'Dance of the Walrus.' 'Is that wise?' I ask. 'Considering their..er.. history?'
Mrs Miggins gives me pitying look. 'Just leave the psychoreography to me, will you?' she says.