The Great Escape Part Two

Remember I said I phoned Chris (my son) to ask him to shut the hens away for us because we were delayed in Norwich yesterday? Well, I get up this morning to go for my swim. I nip out to release the hens as it is now getting light at 6.45 a.m and they won't last indoors until my return without stamping on each other in their house and getting right narky.

I go swimming - 50 lengths- and slip-slide my way home across the slush and ice ridden pavements. Up the garden path I troop, through the fresh snow. 'Cor,' I think. 'Look at the size of those birdie footprints on the path. Must be one helluva robin around here somewhere.' I put my key in lock and happen to glance to the right where I see...

....three escapee hens under the hedge!

'Run!' shouts Poo. 'She's spotted us!'
'Run where?' shouts Pumphrey, not used to this escaping malarkey.
'No, don't run!' shouts Miggins. 'Stand really still. Blend into the hedge. She'll lose sight of us and then we can nip to Starbucks for a frappe.'

I fling open the front door. 'Andy!' I yell up the stairs to Andy who is still, sensibly, in bed. 'The chickens are out!'
'Damn!' says Miggo. 'She's seen us.'
I can't see Mrs Slocombe. Perhaps she's already on a bus and half way to Canterbury. In a mad moment I wonder if I should check if her passport is missing. Andy appears with his coat. 'Go and put some clothes on!' I yell. (I made this up for artistic effect. He was dressed. No streaking was involved in the rounding up of the escapee hens.) So as Andy corrals the hens with his coat I dive into the hedge which is liberally laced with a big old bramble bush and emerge with Mrs Poo. I rush her to the back garden where the gate is swinging wide open (thank you Chris!) and Mrs Slocombe inside, peering nervously around the side of the house.
'Didn't fancy a great escape then?' I say, more relieved than anything.
'No,' she says. 'I know best where my bread is buttered.'
I return to the front garden where Andy has Miggo and Pumphrey contained in a corner. I roll up my sleeves. Pumphrey's going to be the tricky one. I make a dive for her, catch myself on the brambles but managed to get her, rugby-ball style, under my arm and I emerge from the hedge bleeding but triumphant. I deposit Mrs Pumphrey in the back garden where she repairs to the greenhouse for a deep grooming session to rid herself of the bugs of human contamination.

By now Andy has shooed Miggins towards the back gate which I open and she obligingly runs through. I think she saw how I manhandled the other two and wasn't having any of that malarkey. Hen round up complete!

'We really need to get a small-holding,' says Andy.
'Or I need to show my son how to close a gate,' I say.

I think Mercury must be in retrograde. I can think of no other reason for the events of the last two days.