The Chickens of Oz

'I'm meeeeeeeeellllllting!' came the call from the garden.

Aren't we all, I thought. I'm knocking back ice-cubes like there is no tomorrow and the cats are all lying around the house in various states of spineless collapse in their big furry coats, which are highly unsuitable as hot weather gear. And after a week of cold swimming pool water, this morning it was fair bubbling like the cauldrons of hell. Like swimming through treacle it was. There's no pleasing some people, especially not me.

I drag myself into the back garden to see what all the fuss is about.

'I'm meeeeellllllllting.' There it goes again.
'What's going on?' I call, because I haven't got the energy to shift my over-heated self more than a foot or two across the garden.
'I'm holding auditions,' calls Mrs Miggins. She is wearing a tartan beret and sitting on a canvas chair with the word 'Director' and a gold star printed on the back.
'Auditioning for what?'
'Our pantomime.'

I sigh. Despite the fact I've already had two Christmas catalogues through the post (unsolicited, I hasten to add) and the pubs and restaurants hereabouts are littered with signs shouting 'BOOK NOW FOR XMAS!' I am still a firm believer that thoughts of Christmas should not be entertained for another 5 months at least. And even pantomime rehearsals can wait until late October, surely?

'We're doing 'The Chicken of Oz,' says Miggins. 'I've booked the Wyndham Theatre in London for a four week run. I thought the steep rake in the balcony and circle would make an excellent launch pad for the flying monkeys.'

She has a point. Many years ago, I went to see a production of 'Art' at the Wyndham with some teacher colleagues. We were in the first row of the balcony and, as you step from the staircase into the auditorium, the vertiginous drop to the stage is both unexpected and breath-taking. I sat next to a woman who spent the whole performance leaning back and clinging to her seat, terrified she was going to fall into the stalls. I don't think she followed the plot of the play very well.

'So is 'The Chicken of Oz' anything like 'The Wizard of Oz?' I ask.

Mrs Miggins shrugs. 'I don't know,' she says. 'You're the one writing the script.'
'I'm writing the script?' I reply. This is news to me. I have written pantomimes before, both for school and the Girls' Brigade company I belonged to years'n'years'n'years'n'years...
'All right,' snaps Miggins. 'Give over will you? What's up? Heat getting to your brain?'
'Something like that,' I say.
'We want the same characters,' she continues. 'You know, Dorothy, the Cowardly Cow, the Tin Can and the Wicca Man...'
'Shall I stop being the Wicked Witch of the West now?' says Mrs Slocombe, for it was she who called my attention to the garden with her 'I'm meeeeellllting' call.' I notice she is lying prone on the ground, draped in a black cloak and with a bent witches hat perched cockily on her head.
'Yes, yes, ' says Miggins impatiently. 'Now go and put on the Yorkshire Terrier costume. You're trying out for Toto next.'
'I don't see why I can't try for Dorothy,' mutters Slocombe.
'I've already told you,' says Miggins. 'You are barking mad and your comb is wonky. You'd be thoroughly unbelievable as Dorothy, the sweet, pretty child from Canvas.'
'Kansas,' I say.
'Really?' says Miggins. 'So she didn't land in Oz via the medium of a flying tent?'
'No,' I say.
'Perhaps you could give it some thought when you're writing the script,' Miggins suggests, meaning 'I expect Dorothy to come from Canvas in the final cut.'

'How long before you need the script,' I say. 'Only I've got a list of rather more pressing engagements of my time at the moment.'

Miggo fixes me with a steely glare. Beneath her tartan beret she looks like a ginger version of Marlene Dietrich.

'I need it as soon as possible,' she says. 'I have a cast of thousands to co-ordinate and direct which is why I am starting rehearsals next week.'

I am distracted by Mrs Pumphrey appearing wearing a blue and white gingham frock, an apron, some shiny red shoes and wig of blonde curly ringlets. She looks more Shirley Temple than Judy Garland.
'Come on Toto,' she calls after Mrs Slocombe ,who is sweating in a dog costume and having trouble walking on four feet because she has only two and no hands to make up the short fall.

'So, script by Friday then,' says Miggins. 'Take it away, Mrs Pumphrey.'

'On the good ship...Lollipop, it's a sweet trip to the candy shop, where the something or others plaaaaaayyyyyy, on the shores of Peppermint Bay,' trills Mrs Pumphrey, whilst Mrs Slocombe tap dances in the background.

'Are they the right words?' I ask, wondering where the rainbows and yellow brick road are going to come into all this.

'You can go and argue with Mrs Poo if you like,' says Miggo. 'She's in charge of the musical score and lyrics. But I'm warning you now, she's in a foul mood.'

'Oh no she isn't,' I rejoin deciding that if you can't beat 'em, it is best to join in the whole pantomime spirit.

Mrs Miggins gives me one last, very serious look.

'No, she really is. Definitely a job for the reinforced gloves. Look, she's behind you.'

And so the sun continues to beat down on my poor overheated brain. They say it's going to last a few more days yet. I suspect it may go on a lot longer than that.