Title in Deed

'We've been thinking about a title for our book,' say the hens, excitedly.

They have worked out that by standing on each other's heads and using a clever combination of levers and pulleys, they can get into the house via the 'conservatory' windows that I leave permanently open during the day to lessen the aromatic effect that occasionally escapes the cats' poop trays. They no longer need to wait for me to open the door to let them in.

'Invitations are so passe,' says Mrs Miggins when I question their sudden arrival. I was in the shower, you see and the last thing you need as you make your morning ablutions is to turn around and find three wild-eyed hens peering through the cubicle door at you. It was one of those occasions when I wished I hadn't been so thorough in banishing the lime scale that had previously graced the glass, thus forming a hazy veil of privacy.

'Can I get dressed first?' I say, as Mrs Slocombe waves an A4 loose leaf file at me.
'If you must,' says Miggins.
'Have you thought of using a minimising body scrub?' asks Mrs Pumphrey, peering closely at my thighs. 'I can give you some of mine, if you like. Does wonders for the cellulite.'
'She makes it herself,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'From bananas, apricots, oyster shell and ground up snails.'
'I'll pass, thank you kindly,' I say, reaching for a towel.
'Suit yourself,' says Pumphrey. 'But it'd cut back your excess wobble no end and...'
'GO AWAY!' I shriek.

When I go into the bedroom to get dressed I find the hens lounging across the bed draping themselves in my collection of floaty scarves.
'Can you wait in the kitchen please?' I say. 'Just whilst I get dressed.'
'Oh, we're all girls here,' says Miggins. 'Modesty is very passe, you know. Besides, we have lots of ideas about our book that we want to share with you. We've been working on them all night and we're very excited.'

As she says this, she bounces up and down on the pillows.

'Please don't do that,' I say, as feathers fly into the air. Actually, when I take a closer look, the pillows seem rather flat.
'Mrs Slocombe,' I say as sternly as I can whilst wrapped in a bath towel. 'Have you been eating feathers from my pillows?'
'Mmmmmm, mmmm,' denies Mrs Slocombe, shaking her head. A tiny feather drifts from the corner of her beak and her comb turns a slightly darker shade of red.

'Okay,' I say. 'Tell me these great ideas for my book.'
'Our book,' says Miggins. 'Let's get that straight from the start. You'd be nothing as a writer without us.'

I give this concept a moment's thought. I'd certainly have less eggs without them, but would I be a lesser writer, let alone a nothing? Hhmmmm...

'Fire away,' I say.
'Right,' says Mrs Pumphrey, balancing her pince nez on the end of her beak. She opens the file and coughs.
'You haven't caught Mrs Slocombe's cough have you?' I ask.
'No, I am merely clearing my throat in preparation for the enormity of the genius I am about to digress,' says Pumphrey.
'I see,' I say.
'Firstly, the title. We've come up with a selection, but the one we like best is this one,' says Mrs Pumphrey, and she hands me the file, pointing to where a line of text has been highlighted in luminescent green.

'Cluckinghen Palace - Our Life of Servitude,' I read. 'You are joking, aren't you?'

The hens look at me. Not a glimmer of irony tickles their faces.

'I think it sums up the premise of the book exactly,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Me too,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'We had a vote. We all agree.'
'So that's the title sorted!' says Miggins brightly. 'Now, the dedications page. We thought that...'
'Woah,' I say. 'I think I need to consider the other titles first before we commit to this one.'

The hens give a collective sigh.
'If you must,' says Miggins. She hops from the bed, quickly followed by the other two. 'We'll be back later to check on progress.'

And off they trail, down the stairs, bump, bump, bump. Just as I think they've gone, Mrs Miggins shouts back up the stairs. 'By the way,' she calls, 'the eucalyptus has shed all over the lawns again. Clean it up, will you, there's a good girl.'

'Our life of servitude indeed,' I mutter. 'Pah!'