Late night raid and invisible ants

Before I start, I have to mention that I'm having trouble with my 'p' key at the moment, so if any 'p's' render themselves absent from today's blog, that's the reason why. I'm giving the key a good whallop as I ass it by but sometimes, when a writer is caught up in the art and insiration of the moment, it can be too easy to let one's fingers dance over the keyboard as whalloing disturbs the fine balance a creative mind needs in order to erform to their best.

To this end I shall be avoiding the mention of eas, sweet eas, ants (the ones you wear, not the ones who live in anthills) chilli eers (think about it), antomimes or omegranates as much as ossible during this blog. In fact I shall never mention omegranates in any blog on account of the fact the thought of them induces severe feelings of nausea in me. (This stems from an incident when I was ten years old involving a omegranate whilst watching an episode of 'The Duchess of Duke Street'. The carpet was never the same.)

Last night, Andy and I conducted a moonlight raid on the Eglu. During the day my attempts to capture Mrs Umhrey, I mean, Pumphrey, failed and the exertion on both our parts (mine in pursuit, hers in escape) resulted merely in making her bottom and my face even pinker than usual. I tried the usual tricks. I pretended to be a garden gnome so, when curiosity got the better of her and she came to investigate the 'new and interesting garden ornament' I could grab her with my fishing net and shove her inside my gi-normous gnome hat, but that didn't work when she saw straight through my novelty beard. I tried enticing her in for Earl Grey and Jammie Dodgers, but she said she was off all jam-related products since eating a doughnut last week and almost suffocating when she got her beak stuck in the centre. I even offered to make a new dress for her. She is due to bring out a second range of cosmetics, following the phenomenal success of her perfume, 'Poulet by Pumphrey'. She is already thinking about the advertising campaign.
'I thought, having gone down the chiffon route for the erfume, I mean perfume,' she said, 'I might try something a bit more raunchy for this product.'
'What's it called?' I asked.
'Fat Crop,' said Pumphrey. 'It's a range of facial fillers for the older chicken.'
I suggested maybe a nice twin-set and pearls would be more appropriate (my 'p' finger is going numb) to advertise a product for 'the older chicken', rather than the latex and leather catsuit Mrs P had in mind. As we spoke, I got within a finger's width of grabbing her but she took off in an artistic huff so I gave up for the day my mission to spray Mrs Pumhrey's bottom.

Andy arrived home and, after dinner, when the hens had been in bed for a couple of hours and all was quiet and dark, we crept into the garden, opened the pod and slid a dozing Mrs P from her place between Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Miggins, smuggling her indoors with barely more than a squeak or a ruffle. Quickly and quietly, we sprayed her bottom and then nipped her back outside, re-inserting her between Miggo and Slocombe before she'd barely woken.

Easy, easy (insert 'p' where applicable)!

'Ere' said Mrs Poo. 'What's that smell?'
'What smell?' said Mrs Slocombe, who was spoiling for a cold and couldn't smell a thing unless it was chips.
'It's Mrs Pumphrey,' said Mrs Miggins. 'She was here smelling like a chicken, then she disappeared for a few seconds and now she's back smelling like Johnson's Anti-Peck Spray.'
'I disappeared?' said Pumphrey, blinking sleepily.
'Yes. Not for long though. It wasn't martians,' said Miggins.
'Oh,' said Mrs Pumphrey, who thought the idea of martian kidnap rather glamorous.
'I think Denise and Andy finally caught you and gave your bare pink bottie a spray,' said Miggo. She adjusted her pale lilac sleeping mask - the elastic was pinching the feathers at the back of her neck.
'I thought my nethers felt a tad chilly,' said Pumphrey.
'Do they feel damp, too?' asked Mrs Poo.
'They do,' said Pumphrey. 'How do you know?'
'You're sitting on my foot,' said Poo. 'I wish you'd wear ants.'
'I would wear ants,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only I think they'd move about too much and bite.'
'I meant pants, not ants,' said Mrs Poo, wishing Denise would get her keyboard sorted out.
'I thought wearing ants was an odd thing for even you to suggest,' said Mrs Pumphrey.

Mrs Poo wiped her damp foot on the duvet. 'Shut up and go to sleep,' she said.