A Deputation on the Doorstep

A deputation appeared on the doorstep of Much Malarkey Manor this morning, the size and shape of one cat flanked either side by a chicken. They each bore a demanding look of their faces. I thought, I bet they haven't come to discuss curtain material for the Oriental Salon.

'We've come to ask about our employment in the Manor once it is built and ready to go,' said Mrs Poo, who'd been elected spokeshen by the other two because, I assume, she looks the most menacing. (It certainly wouldn't have been for her diplomatic skills.)

'Employment?' I said. 'I assumed you were going to lounge around doing nothing and cluttering up the place much as you do now. Ahahahahahahahahahahaha....ouch! Was that entirely necessary?'
'I find a sharp peck to the knee cap excellent at bringing a halt to hysterical laughter,' said Mrs Poo, wiping her beak on the bottom of my skirt.'
'We just wanted to know why Mrs Miggins, Mrs Pumphrey, Phoebe and Pandora have all got jobs lined up and we haven't,' said Tybalt.
'They volunteered,' I said. 'They are motivated. They want to be involved.'
'So do we,' said Mrs Slocombe. She looked slightly hurt in the way only a bonkers mad chicken can look.
'Well,' I said, 'Andy and I are more than happy for you to have jobs in the Manor. The more hands, paws and claws to the wheel the better.'
'You're going to have to help us out a bit here,' said Mrs Poo. 'What kind of things could we do?'

I thought for a moment. I could do without thinking. What I really wanted was a glass of water and a lie-down. I'd just finished making and decorating Leane's birthday cake which involved much chocolate of the Maltesers, chocolate buttons, chocolate flake and Smarties variety and there was quite a bit leftover which I felt obliged to eat. And I now felt decidedly ikky.

'Okay,' I said, 'I'm planning to start a reading group and a writers' workshop and I need a roving reporter to go into the field at Titbury von Streudelheim and Down-In-The-Dumps to report on events there. Oh, and a butler.'
'What's a butler?' asked Tybalt.
'Someone who buttles,' I said. 'Actually, you'd make a good butler, Tybs. You've got the right uniform for it.'

Tybalt looked down at his black and white fur, the markings of which gave the appearance of black trousers and jacket and a white shirt.
'What do you mean?' he said.
'Well, you know, the black and white livery suit effect,' I said.
'Are you saying,' said Tybalt, 'that I look like a penguin?'
'Heaven forbid,' I said, 'but now you've mentioned it...'

'I could be a roving reporter,' interrupted Mrs Slocombe before claws were drawn and nasty scrapping ensued. 'I have a wild and roving eye.'
'You certainly do,' I said. 'How's your shorthand?'
'Probably not as short as it could be,' said Mrs Slocombe,' but I could practise.'
'That's the spirit!' I said. 'Now, just Mrs Poo to sort out.'
'I ain't butteling,' said Tybalt, but I merely smiled at him and patted his little furry head. His fate was already sealed.
'I was hoping for something a bit more high profile,' said Mrs Poo. It was then that I noticed she was wearing a double rope of very large pearls and mink stole.
'Is that real fur?' I said, in what I hoped was a disapproving tone.
'Listen,' said Mrs Poo, pulling the fur closer to her neck (and shoulders, if chickens had shoulders), 'if a mink tries to sneak into Cluckinghen Palace and steal our eggs, then I think it gets what it deserves, don't you?'

I sighed. She was right, of course. An English hen's coop is her castle after all.

'So I'd like to apply for the role of Lady of the Manor,' said Mrs Poo.
'I am sorry but that position is already filled,' I said.
'By whom?' said Poo.
'By me,' I said and I closed the Manor door, because the builders had just poured new concrete in the Main Hall and I didn't want cat fur and chicken feathers mussing it up.

Do you know, I could have sworn I heard raucous laughter as I walked away.