Hentique Sale

Our house is situated on a main road between two schools. During term time it can be a bit of a job getting out onto that road of a morning, what with all the mummies and daddies dropping their offspring at one or other of these two schools. They make a constant stream of traffic, these mummies and daddies, but it is generally so slow moving that some-one will let you into the queue if you smile like a loon, and if smiling like a loon fails to charm, then taking a right turn out of the drive will lead you round the back of the houses and onto a convenient roundabout so you can join the morning rush that way. There's always a way to participate in the human race, you see.

Anyway, during the school holidays, the traffic is very much reduced. This morning, however, it seemed extraordinarily heavy. I woke late - I've been feeling very tired this last week and slept in, which is unheard of for a dawn chorus body like me - and my first thought was 'Have I slept for a whole week and the schools are now back?'

On closer inspection I noticed the majority of the traffic was turning into our road. And on even closer inspection, once I'd donned my specs and the world seemed a less fuzzy place, I noticed the front garden and drive was full of tat, rows of chairs, an auction podium and people waving little cards with numbers on. Something was occurring.

I opened the window.
'What is going on down there?' I yelled.

Mrs Miggins looked up. She was wearing a long brown overall; a monocle glinted from her eye in the early morning sun.
'We're having an antique sale,' she said. 'Do you mind the neighbours seeing you in your floral jim-jams?'
'A what?' I said.
'Antique sale,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Lot 7...a genuine cut glass crystal chandelier from the reign of Louis the Twelfthty- something.' And she held aloft a chandelier. The sun caught the crystals, which dazzled back into my eyes, blinding me temporarily. By the time I had dressed and got into the front garden, the hammer had gone down on the chandelier. Luckily, nothing was broken.

'Sold to the lady at the back with the blue rinse beard,' shouted Mrs Slocombe, who seemed to be in the role of auctioneer. She banged down the gavel and took down the woman's number.
'Is it wise to let her have a hammer?' I said to Mrs Pumphrey, who was reclining on a chaise longue with a LOT 18 sticker on it.
'Well, once she got hold of it we couldn't get her to let go,' said Mrs Pumphrey.
'Where did all this stuff come from?' I asked, casting my eye around the garden. Heavy oak furniture sat alongside paintings and ornaments. A suit of armour was leaning against the magnolia tree.
'We had a clear out,' said Pumphrey. 'Excuse me, I need to go and model that genuine Moorcroft vase.'
'You had a clear out? Of Cluckinghen Palace?' I said.
'Yes,' said Pumphrey. 'We thought that as we're moving it would be a good time for a tidy.'

I knew what she meant. Perhaps that's why I was feeling so tired. I must have climbed that loft ladder at least a thousand times last week.

'You seem to have an awful lot of stuff,' I said.
'Lot 9,' squawked Mrs Slocombe. 'A Clarence Clift tea-set complete with coffee percolator and sandwich toaster.'
'Does she know what she's doing?' I said, as Mrs Miggins held the tea-set, percolator and sandwich toaster in the air.
'I doubt it, but would you argue with a mad chicken in charge of a hammer?' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And we have a lot of stuff because Cluckinghen Palace is steeped in hundreds of years of history. You can't spend all that time in one place without amassing a certain amount of tat, I mean, treasure.'
'Cluckinghen Palace is less than 6 months old,' I pointed out.
'Yes, in your world maybe,' said Mrs Pumphrey, 'but in chicken world, where the average life span of a hen is 5 or 6 human years, then the sense of perspective lengthens, doesn't it?'
'Does it?' I said. I didn't want to get involved in anything too mathematical. I hadn't had breakfast yet and had already failed to do the most simple Sudoku in the morning paper.

'Guess how old I am,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Go on, I won't be offended.'
'You're one year and two months,' I said, because I knew this to be true.
'WRONG!' said Pumphrey. 'I am nearly 18.'
'Gosh,' I said. 'Nearly old enough to vote.'
'Vote?' said Pumphrey. 'No sane chicken would ever vote. There is a different sort of social justice in the chicken world.' And a strange glint came across her eye.

'Right,' I said.
'So by the time you've calculated a chicken's age in real chicken time, subtracted leap days times 4, multiplied by the average number of eggs laid over 15 weeks and then added 200 years for chicken luck, we've actually been living in Cluckinghen Palace for 457 years,' said Mrs Pumphrey triumphantly. And she balanced the Moorcroft vase on her head and juggled three Victorian Toby jugs.

I backed away at this point. And bumped into Mrs Miggins who was hefting a box of books across to the autioneer's podium.
'First Edition Pookie Puts the World Right and other assorted Pookie the Rabbit books,' she said. 'Highly collectable. Do you want to bid for them?'
Having recently divested our house of 300+ books, I declined her kind offer.
'By the way,' said Miggins as I made to go indoors for some extra strong tea with 5 sugars and a dose of amphetamines, 'where are we going to live in the new house? Are we taking Cluckinghen Palace with us?'

'Don't worry,' I said. 'I've already got Guy the Builder lined up to build your new accommodation.'
'Is it going to be bigger than what we've got now?' said Miggins, her eye ever on social advancement in the property stakes.
'Yes,' I said. 'But you may have to share it with more poultry.'
'Poultry?' said Miggins. 'Sounds disgusting. What's poultry?'
'Oh, more hens, some bantams. Ducks. A couple of geese,' I said. I thought, is now a good time to mention the beehive that is likely to be arriving for my birthday, or the piggies that will be joining us when we move.

Mrs Miggins gave a shiver. 'Geese, eh? They make an awful racket,' she said.
'But they taste good,' I said.
'I wouldn't know,' said Mrs Miggins, imperiously. 'I've never licked a goose.'
'Probably wise,' I said.

'Now if you'll excuse me,' said Miggins, 'we have a sale to manage.'
'What are you going to do with the proceeds?' I said.
'Never you mind,' said Miggins. 'We have plans.'

It's never a good thing when a chicken comes over all enigmatic. Trouble is bound to follow. But I have great affection and respect for my girls. We've been through a lot together. They have taught me many things. Well, more than I have taught them (although Mrs Slocombe's counted cross stitch is looking a lot better since I showed her how to adjust the back tension of her thread.)

And should I be worried about the brochure that arrived this morning, addressed to Mrs Miggins and entitled 'Build Your Own Traction Engine in 83 Easy Steps and Other Heavy Metal Projects.'

Probably.