Mrs Pumphrey is unwell

Poor Mrs Pumphrey. Poor, poor Mrs Pumphrey.
'Once more for effect,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'because I am quite poorly.'
'Okay,' I say, 'but don't push it, eh? Ahem...poor, poor, poor Mrs Pumphrey.'

Yesterday evening, as I was taking some lemon buns from the oven and casting an occasional glance through the kitchen window at the chickens pottering in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace, I noticed Mrs Pumphrey was missing. She'd been hanging around the pod earlier and I thought 'She must be having an early night,' which is most unlike her because she, of all the girls, can be a bit of a dirty stop out sometimes.

Anyway, I popped out to check on her, just in case she'd managed to escape. The hens had been a bit excitable all day because of the wind (atmospheric, not personal), and earlier I had spotted Mrs Pumphrey on top of the gazebo eyeing up the distance to the top of the fence for jumpability.
'Are you there, Pumphrey?' I called. A forlorn head stuck out from the pod. Followed by a forlorn red and white body.
'Red and white?' I thought. 'Not Mrs Pumphrey's usual colour combination.' And then I realised. She is covered in blood!

All chaos ensued!

'Poor me,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I'm telling the story, thank you,' I say. 'Kindly keep your sympathetic embellishments to yourself.'

Anyway, Andy and I rush to the rescue. Mrs Pumphrey, as you know, will not be caught easily on account of her being allergic to human beings. We lured her into the pod with some apple.
'Cheap trick,' says Pumphrey.
'It worked,' I say. 'And we took her inside to assess the injury.'
'Poor me,' says Pumphrey.

It seems that in her wild episode of flinging herself about earlier in the day, she must have caught herself on something in the Palace grounds. The upshot is, is that she has got a nasty hole under her wing. So off to hospital (aka a cat basket in the kitchen) she went.

The wound was cleaned and dressed and antibiotics administered via the medium of apple.
'I can't believe I fell for the apple trick again,' sighs Pumphrey. 'Pass me some sunflower seeds will you? I am, after all quite poorly.' We also gave her a good squirt with anti-peck spray. Just in case.

And then she was settled in my writing room with a towel over the cat basket (which had also been fitted with roosting bars, water bowl and food bowl. Admittedly, this didn't leave much room for Pumphrey but she is coping admirably well) for the night.

This morning, Mrs Pumphrey is calm and seemingly happy in her cat box. She has had a bowl of water, some sunflower seeds, corn, layers pellets, greens and cucumber and she pooped on Andy's shirt and socks whilst we were tending to her wound. But a decision had to be made.
What next?

She can't go outside with the others whilst the wound is open. Firstly, there is the danger of flies. Secondly, there is the danger of Mrs Slocombe who will have a field day with the injury and because Mrs Pumphrey isn't the brightest hen in the coop, she will stand there and let her. So this morning I am off to find a large pet cage which will be used as a hen ward for a week or so. And when Pumphrey is better, we have a cunning plan involving the cage, Mrs Slocombe, a collar and curing a feather pecking habit. But ssshhhhhh. Don't say anything to her about it just yet.

'I want nice curtains,' says Pumphrey. 'And en-suite facilities. And a bowl of fruit on my bed-side table. And a telly and a phone and DVD player so I can catch up on my watching of 'All Creatures Great and Small.' Apparently, there is a character in the series who is named after me.'
'How about a small nest box for egg laying?' I say. (I had put some straw in the corner of the cat box just in case she needed a nest area.)
Mrs Pumphrey looks at me, askance. Well, about as askance as a chicken can manage.
'Eggs?' she says. 'You expect me to lay EGGS?? I AM injured you know. I am convalescing. Pass me a grape. No pips.'
'Oh,' I say.
'There is an old chicken saying,' says Pumphrey, reaching for a copy of Hello! magazine and adjusting her mohair bed jacket. 'It goes - 'An injured chicken is a grumpy girl. You won't get an egg until she's better.'
'Well,' I correct, because I think that would be a more appropriate rhyme.
'Well what?' says Pumphrey.

I sigh. It's going to be a long week...

(Update: Mrs Pumphrey is making small sqeaky noises and flinging straw all over the place. Despite the old chicken saying, I think an egg might be on its way.)