Slocombe the Savage

It seems that now we have removed Mrs Slocombe from the hen flock in order to stop her bullying the others and hopefully demote her to the bottom of the pecking order, she has taken it upon herself to start bullying her new flock aka me and Andy. Yesterday evening, we both went to visit her in her chicken loonie bin in order to share some circle time and indulge in some useful psychotherapy.

'Let's go around the circle and introduce ourselves,' I said.
'I know who you are,' said Andy.
'Just play the game, will you?' I said. 'For the sake of the chicken.'
'Okay,' said Andy. 'My name is Andy and I am a vet. I don't want to be a vet I want to be a gentleman farmer or Doctor Who. I have weird dreams about being chased across the African savanna by Bruce Willis in a Sinclair C5. My favourite food is cheese and sometimes I like to wrap my head in a...'
'Ahem,' I say, before too much information is revealed. 'We are here to psychotherapise Mrs Slocombe, not you.'
'You started it,' said Andy.
'My name is Denise and I am a writer,' I said, sending Andy to sit in the corner and play with stickle bricks. 'I like reading, making stuff and my favourite telly programme at the moment is the Chelsea Flower Show except Joe Swift because I get this terrible urge to hold his head under water whenever I see him and...'
'Ahem,' said Mrs Slocombe,' we are here to psychotherapise ME!'
'Quite right,' said Andy. 'Look, I've made a stickle brick Tardis.'
'Hush,' I said. 'And take your pills.'
'My name is Mrs Slocombe,' said Mrs S. 'Or Betty to my friends, which doesn't include you two. I am being held in solitary confinement against my will and as soon as I get out of here I am contacting SueYouAtTheDropOfAHat. com for trauma and loss of my chicken privileges.'
'You know why you are here,' I said. 'It's because you aren't very nice to the other girls.'
'Well, they aren't very nice to me,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'For example?' I said.
'Mrs Miggins stole my shower cap and hid it in the freezer. When I found it, the plastic had perished and it crumbled into a hundred thousand pieces. I liked that shower cap. It had sentimental value.'
'With emphasis on the mental?' said Andy.
'You can't speak unless you are in the circle,' I said. 'Holding Mr Pookey, the talking teddy bear.'
'Mr Pookey?' said Andy.
'Yes,' I said. 'Mr Pookey is the talk facilitator. Members of the circle can only speak if they are holding Mr Pookey.'
'And where is Mr Pookey?' said Andy, returning to the circle with a stickle brick Darth Vader helmet on his head.
'Mrs Slocombe had just ripped his head off,' I said, giving Mrs S a bit of a stern look because she isn't playing the game properly.

And thus it continued. There were tears, there were tantrums, there was sitting in the corner and there was head banging. Waterbowls were upset, newspaper was shredded. No eggs were laid. And that was just me and Andy - boom, boom!

Eventually, after I'd tried to offer the hand of friendship to Mrs S in the form of layers pellets and organic lettuce leaves, and she'd had a damn good try at cannibalising my flesh, we called it a day. Top of the pecking order - Mrs Slocombe.

'I'm just glad I haven't got a feathery bottom,' I sighed as we emerged from my writing room, shattered and traumatised from circle time session number one.

'Now, it's funny you should mention that,' said Andy. 'Because I had this dream the other night...'