Going Publico-loco

'We're ready to go public,' says Mrs Miggins. She is standing on a garden chair, peering though the kitchen window where I am standing on the other side at the sink wrestling with a pumpkin. 'What exactly are you doing?'
'Don't ask,' I say. Dismembering a pumpkin is a tricky business. I've toyed with standing on a chair myself and dropping the pumpkin from a great height, but the thought of the resulting mess that would need cleaning up is too much for me to bear, so I battle on bravely with assorted knives, mashers and rolling pins.

'Anyway,' said Mrs Miggins, who can tell my thoughts are in danger of running away with themselves, 'back to us going public.'
I put the pumpkin to one side and give Miggo my full attention. If I don't, she'll paint over the kitchen window with whitewash. It's the chicken equivalent of giving someone the silent treatment and it takes an age to scrape off.
'How do you mean?' I say.
'Well, I've been talking to Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Pumphrey,' says Mrs Miggins. 'And I would have drawn Mrs Poo into the conversation, too, only she seems to have disappeared.'

I hold up my hand. 'Now hang on,' I say. 'I've explained what happened to Mrs Poo. You remember? When I sat you all down and told you she'd gone to Chicken Heaven?'
'You mean Paignton?' says Mrs Pumphrey, appearing suddenly besides Miggo. There is a minor pause in the conversation whilst they tussle for ownership of the garden chair, then they reappear clinging onto each other like that film still of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in 'Some Like It Hot.'
'No, not Paignton,' I say. 'Heaven.'
'Well, my Aunt Florence told me she was hatched in Paignton and she said it was in Heaven,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'In Devon,' I say. 'Paignton is in Devon.'
'Is it?' says Pumphrey.
'Yes...look, come inside,' I say. Call me psychic, but I can already sense this is going to be a complex discussion requiring sitting down with tea, cake and paracetemol.
'RESULT!' yells Mrs Miggins. 'See, I told you she always gives in to absurdism!'

'Where's Mrs Slocombe?' I say, opening the back door for Miggo and Pumphrey.
'Gone to Heaven,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I mean, Paignton. In Devon.'
For a moment, I panic. Is Mrs Pumphrey being ironic? Is she beating me at the game of puns? Or is she trying to tell me that Mrs Slocombe is demised, no more, an ex-chicken?

I rush into the garden and run around. 'Mrs Slocombe!' I call. 'Mrs Slocombe! Betty!! Where are you?'
'I've told you,' says Mrs Pumphrey from the back door. 'She's gone to Paignton. On holiday. To recover her sanity. She reckons a week'll do it but I'm not so sure.'
'Really?' I say because I am suspicious of this news. Since Mrs Poo died, and Cluckinghen Palace has been undivided allowing the remaining three girls access to the entire grounds, Mrs Slocombe has been unable to prevent herself from annoying the other two and I wouldn't put it past either Miggo or Pumphrey to accidentally bury her under the patio and ornamental fountain. It's a nice fountain though. A replica of the one at the front of the Palace of Versailles. If I was going to be buried alive under a fountain, it's the kind I'd choose. Unless I could get a copy of the one in Copenhagen harbour with the mermaid and...

'Oi!' says Mrs Miggins. 'Will you pay attention? It seems to be escaping your notice that WE are the MOST IMPORTANT thing at the moment. And our plan to GO PUBLIC.'

I return to the kitchen. The contents of the cake and biscuit tins are already on plates on the table and on the front of Mrs Slocombe's feather bosoms.
'I'm not sure eating flapjack is a good thing if you want to hold an important discussion,' I say, seeing Mrs Pumphrey's beak all ready clogged with stickiness.
'Mmpphh, mmmgggrrbbble, hmppphhg, burp,' says Pumphrey.

'Ignore her,' says Miggo. 'She's talking rubbish. Basically, we want you to write a book about us.'

I look from one hen to the other. I can feel my limbic system failing and my mouth starting to hang open in disbelief.
'You do have the interwebbly in Cluckinghen Palace, don't you?' I say.
'Oh yes,' says Miggo. 'And Freeview, Sky Sports, Sky Film, Sky Rocket and Way Up Sky.'
'We like Sky Sports,' says Pumphrey, swallowing down the last of her flapjack and starting on a Jaffa cake. 'Especially beach volleyball. All those buff cocks in tight trunks and...'
'Hush!' I say. 'Way too much information.'
'So will you write a book about us?' says Miggins. 'We won't pay you, of course, because our entertainment value should be payment enough but...'
'I've been writing about you for the last year,' I interrupt.

There is a silence.

'You've been what?' says Miggins.
'In my blog. I've been catalogueing your adventures in my blog on the interwebbly. Andy has been saving the entries in a file and we've already talked about putting them together with new material into a book,' I say.' And cartoons.'
'Well!' says Miggins. She sounds a tad affronted. 'I hope you've been telling the truth.'
'Every single word,' I say. 'I'm not going to compromise my integrity as a writer by writing anything untrue or libellous, am I?'
'You were hitting a pumpkin with a rolling pin earlier,' says Miggins. 'I wouldn't put anything past you.'
'So the book project is already underway, you see,' I say.

Miggins chews thoughtfully on a cheese scone. 'We'll have to read what you've done so far,' she says.
'Of course,' I say.
'Have you written about the time when you had to replace my prolapsed bottom?' says Miggins.
''Fraid so,' I say.
'Hmmmmm...' says Miggins. 'And do all the blog entries ramble on for as long as this blog entry?'
'No,' I say. 'This has been an especially long ramble.'
'Thank goodness for that,' says Miggins. 'We don't want the readers falling asleep with boredom do we, Mrs Pumphrey?'
'Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...' says Mrs Pumphrey.

Mrs Miggins and I let out simultaneous sighs. We're so alike, I think.
'We most certainly are not,' says Miggins.
'Did I think that out loud?' I say.
'No. I can mind read,' says Miggins. 'A skill I learned from Sky Par-hen-ormal. And if you're going to put cartoons in this book, I insist on being portrayed from my left profile. In fact,' she continues, giving Mrs Pumphrey a kick as she jumps from her chair to wake her up, 'I think I'd better consult Tango Pete vis a vis the legal aspect of being in a book.'
'I thought Tango Pete was a ballroom dancer?' I say, walking with them to the back door.
'He is,' says Miggins, 'but he has to do something else to earn a living when Strictly Hen Dancing is off air, doesn't he?'