Birthday Teambuilding

I am in the greenhouse watering the plants when Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Miggins appear behind me, startling me somewhat.
'Hello,' I say,' where did you two come from?'
'Well,' says Miggins,' there's a mummy hen and daddy hen who love each other very much and...'
'Not necessarily,' interrupts Pumphrey. 'My grandmother said her husband was a right gad-about. Went through an entire coop of 60 hens in twelve minutes flat then disappeared to go on tour with a musical.'
'Really?' says Miggins. 'What musical was that?'
'Grandmother wasn't sure,' says Pumphrey, 'but she thinks it was called 'Coq au Vin Revisited.'

'That's not what I mean,' I say, trying to regain control of the conversation as I have a dental check-up later this morning and am already feeling a bit ansty about having my molars prodded by a stranger. 'I mean, how did you two escape from the North Wing?'
'Ah,' says Miggins,' that would be telling.'

Actually, what is REALLY telling are the open parachute canopies that are trailing behind both hens and the safety helmets and goggles they are both wearing. Call me suspicious, but I suspect they may have scaled the walls of the Dowager House and flung themselves up and over the fence of Cluckinghen Palace, commando-style. (And I don't mean without their pants.)

'We've come to ask a favour of you, Mrs Suspicious,' says Miggins.
'Oh yes?' I say. 'And I told you not to call me Mrs Suspicious, didn't I?'
'IT'S OUR BIRTHDAY TOMORROW!' shrieks Pumphrey, unable to contain her excitement that in less than twenty four hours she, Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Poo will attain the grand old age of one year.
'Yes,' I say. 'I've made a note in my diary and I've already got a cake in the fridge ready for the tea-party.'
Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey exchange awkward glances.
'Tea party?' says Miggo.
'Yes,' I say, enthusiastically. 'I thought, as the weather forecast for this weekend is good, that we could have a tea party in the garden. I could bring the radio outside. We could do dancing. Have a game of Twister.'

More awkward glances. I am beginning to suspect that the girls may have already made plans and they are plans that don't include me.

'Er...' begins Mrs Pumphrey, twirling her foot in an embarrassed fashion on the ground, getting it tangled in her parachute and falling over. 'It's just that we've already made plans,' she continues, staring up at me from her tangled heap on the ground.
'Oh,' I say.
'Yes,' says Miggins, who always shoots from the hip in matters of telling it how it is. 'We're going teambuilding. To the army barracks in Folkestone. And we need you to let Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Poo out of the South Wing.'

I look across at the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace. Slocombe and Poo are dangling from parachutes in the eucalyptus trees where they appear to have become stuck after a failed escape attempt. Mrs Poo gives me an embarrassed shrug and smile. Mrs Slocombe looks mad, so no change there then.

I sigh. 'If I let you out to go on this teambuilding thing...' I begin.
'There's going to be abseiling, an assault course and soldiers and white water rafting and a barbecue and soldiers and rifle shooting and tank driving and soldiers....' interrupts Mrs Pumphrey,excitedly.
'...then you must PROMISE me that you'll all get along nicely and NONE of you will come back with less feathers than you are leaving with and that your bottoms stay where they should be.'
'I have big pants on,' says Miggins.
'And I've got a toffee apple to curb my pecking urges,' calls Mrs Slocombe from where she is dangling in the tree.'

I look at them all. They all look back at me with large, pleading puppy dog eyes, which is rather scary and disproportionate with the actual sizes of their heads.

'All right,' I concede. 'But you must be nice to each other.'
'That's why we're going teambuilding for a birthday treat,' says Miggins.
'With soldiers,' adds Pumphrey.

Out the front, a car horn toots.
'That'll be our lift,' says Miggins.

I climb the eucalyptus tree using my new climbing gear (hurrah for ebay - £4.49 inc, p&p with free 'total grip' gloves), release Poo and Slocombe from the South Wing and walk them all to the front gate where a large army lorry full of large soldiers awaits them.

Up they hop - Miggins, Poo, Pumphrey and Slocombe.
'SQUARK!!!!' goes Mrs Pumphrey.
'Mrs Slocombe,' I snap. 'I've warned you.'
'What? What??' says Mrs Slocombe turning around and looking at me, all innocent like, a white feather stuck to her toffee apple.