Launch Party

'Vol au vents or canapes?' says Mrs Pumphrey. She is dressed in a little black dress with frilly white apron and would have had a tea towel flung over her shoulder if chickens had shoulders.
'I thought we were having horses doovres,' says Mrs Slocombe. She is sitting on a bar stool, buffing her champagne flutes and sharpening her corkscrew.
'I tried to get horses doovres,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'but they're out of season, apparently.'
'Canapes, then,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'But I'd double check with Mrs Miggins if I were you. Strictly speaking, she's in charge of food. I'm alcohol, soft beverages and cheesey pineapple on sticks.'

I wander out into the garden. A large marquee has appeared and a jazz band is wandering around, tuning their French horns and banjos. Call me suspicious, but something is occurring and I'm more than curious to find out what.

'What's occuring?' I ask, entering the marquee.
'We are the official United Kingdom venue for the launch party of Vera in France's book, 'Psychic Virgin' available from Lulu Publishing, get it now,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'And I'm in charge of testing the champagne to make sure it isn't corked.'
'Is that right?' I say. 'And what are you in charge of, Mrs Pumphrey?'
'Table settings,' she says. 'I've gone for a red, white and blue theme, to show a cross-cultural unity between England and France. What do you think?'
'Nice,' I say, 'and the shower curtains?'
'A nod to the psycho element of the book title,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'It's 'psychic', not psycho,' I say.
'I might want to take down the shower curtains then,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
I nod. 'I think so.'
'What can I put in their place?' asks Pumphrey.
'Virgils!' shouts Mrs Slocombe, who appears to being trying to count the champagne bubbles in her glass and give them all names. 'You know, like him out of Thunderbirds! Or Greek mothilogy.' She's had more than a glass or two, I reckon.
'Mythology,' I say, 'and it's not Virgil, it's Virgin. And Virgil was a Roman poet. He really lived.'
'I bet he did,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'those Romans knew how to throw a party, that's for sure, didn't they, Mr Malcolm Bubble?'
'How about balloons and flowers,' I suggest, because in these situations it is always wise to go for the safe option.
'Mrs Poo is supposed to be inflating balloons,' sighs Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only she keeps popping them with her claws every time she tries to tie knots in their necks. I gave her a pair of gloves to wear but she insisted she could manage without. I'd stay well away from her at the mo. She's being a bit tetchy.'
'And I'm not as drunk as some thinkle peep I am,' yells Mrs Slocombe, sliding from her bar stool to the floor.

I decide to find the voice of sanity and seek out Mrs Miggins.
'Morning Miggo,' I say, finding her in the kitchen area of the marquee. She is wearing a chef's hat and tunic and trousers that are way too big for her.
'It's Madame Miggolet to you,' she says huffily, 'and don't crowd me, please. I am cheffing.'
'Oooh, 'I say. 'What's on the menu?'
'Well,' says Madame Miggolet, ' I thought, should I go for something intrinsically English, because Vera is English and we are in England? Or should I go for something French because Vera's home is now in France. Or should I go for a fusion food combo?'
'And what did you decide on?' I ask.
'Duck,' says Madame Miggolet. 'Chunks of duck.'
'Chunks of duck?' I repeat. I think, this is spooky, because only yesterday Vera and I had a discussion about chunks of duck. Is Madame Miggolet a psychic chicken??
'Yes,' says Mme M. 'And beans. I've done my research and it's typical rural French fare.'
'Okay,' I say. 'Anything else?'
'Nope,' says Madame Miggolet. 'Just chunks of duck and beans.'
'I think Vera might like a pudding,' I say.
'Why? Is she actually coming to the launch party for Psychic Virgin, available from Lulu Publishing, get it now?' says Mme M. 'I thought this UK do was a simply symbolic celebration.'
'It is,' I say. 'Lovely alliteration, by the way.'
'Thank you,' says Mme. M.
'But I think a symbolic celebratory pudding would still be appropriate,' I continue. 'If I lived abroad and was having a book launch party in England, I would like to think that someone was eating an English pudding in my book's honour.'
'Right. What do you suggest,' says Madame Miggolet, who looks like she's having enough trouble coping with chunks of duck and beans, never mind a pudding too.
'Apple crumble,' I say. 'Or better still, rhubarb. Rhubarb is in season. Vera would approve of that.'
'I like to do seasonal cheffing, too,' says Madame Miggolet. 'I asked Mrs Pumphrey to get me some horses doovres, but they're off at the moment.'
'Good job I didn't suggest a horses doovres crumble then,' I joke.

Madame Miggolet gives me a withering glare.
'Don't be stupid,' she says.

Anyway, tonight nous en Angleterre shall feast on chunks of duck and beans whilst listening to Tybalt reading extracts from 'Psychic Virgin' available from Lulu Publishing, get it now, and we shall toast its success in champagne (if Mrs Slocombe hasn't drunk it all by then) and a nice cup of tea and rhubarb crumble. It is finally here after a long journey and much hard work and swearing and phewing.

BONNE FELICITATIONS, VERA!!