Mind over Magic

Whilst out gathering tomatoes this morning, Mrs Miggins calls me over with all the world-weariness of a chicken who has tolerated sharing her space with two idiot companions for nearly a year now and that year is turning out to be eleven months too long.

'What's up, Mrs M?' I say cheerfully, because I am feeling cheerful; picking tomatoes does that for me, I've no idea why, perhaps it's because they are red which is one of my favourite colours.

'Would you come and see if you can sort out Mrs Slocombe?' says Mrs Miggins. 'Only she watched that Derren Brown 'I'm Going to Paralyse You to Your Sofa using Subliminal Thought Processes' malarkey last night and she appears to be still under the influence.'
'Oh,' I say. 'Which sofa is she stuck to? The Chesterfield or the Linda Barker?'
'Don't be ridiculous,' snaps Miggins. (It is at this point that I realise she is a chicken on the edge.) 'Subliminal thought process doesn't actually work, you know.'

This is true. Andy, Heather and I all played along with the game last night and all three of us managed to rise normally from the sofa at the given 'up-you-jump' moment, although Heather admitted her legs felt 'a bit heavy.' Mind you, I don't think we helped the experiment by getting a fit of the giggles half way through and taking the mickey out of the studio audience who were wrestling to free themselves from their seats as though someone had stapled them to the upholstery when they weren't looking.

'So what is the problem exactly?' I say to Miggins as I open the gate of the North Wing of Cluckinghen Palace.
'Oh, you know,' sighs Miggins. She pauses to take some washing off the line as we pass by. 'The usual hypnotism problem.'
'She's stopped smoking?' I say.
'She thinks she's a chicken,' says Miggins.

I stop in my tracks.
'Hang on,' I say. 'What do you mean, 'she thinks she's a chicken?'
'Do I have to explain everything to you?' says Mrs M. 'You know, a hypnotist will get a susceptible volunteer to go onto the stage, put them under the 'fluence, wake them up and then every time the hypnotist clicks their fingers, or says a trigger word or phrase like 'froghopper' or 'would you like a biscuit with that?' the volunteer will start flapping their arms and strutting about making noises like a chicken.'

'But...' I begin.
'So when I did the Saturday early-morning-tea-in-bed-and-Guardian-newspaper duty today, and I said to Mrs Slocombe, 'would you like a biscuit with that?' she leapt out of bed and started behaving like a chicken. It's quite sad really and very embarrassing. I wouldn't want the neighbours to see her in this state.'

And she beckons me to the South Wing and opens the door.

Mrs Slocombe appears and tips her head to one side, giving me a beady-eyed look.

'Morning, Mrs Slocombe,' I say, brightly.
'Bok, bok, bok,' says Mrs S.
'How are you today?' I venture further.
'Bokkity, bok, bok, bok, bokky, bik, bik, bok,' says Mrs S.
'See,' says Miggins. 'Can you understand a word she's saying? I can't.'
'Hmmmm,' I say. 'And this is all from watching Derren Brown on the telly last night?'
'Yes,' sighs Miggins. 'I left the room for five minutes to make hot chocolate. I said, 'DO NOT follow Derren's instructions. You know how mad you are. If anyone is bound to fall for his trickery pokery it'll be you, you crazy bint. And when I stuck my head round the door to ask if she wanted cream on her chocolate she was behaving like...like a farmyard animal.'

I can see this is an upsetting experience for Mrs Miggins. She is a creature of very high standards and won't even entertain having a goldfish in the Palace let alone a mucky thing like a chicken.
'Right,' I say. 'Don't panic. I'll sort it out. You go and put the kettle on and I'll deal with Mrs Slocombe,' and I roll up my sleeves and fix Mrs S with a steely stare. To give her credit, she barely flinches at my look and continues to bok and bik whilst digging up the ground in pursuit of Lord knows what kind of horrendous bug.

As Mrs M disappears, I swoop on Slocombe and hold her firmly by the shoulders, or at least the place where chicken's shoulders would be if they had shoulders.
'Now look here,' I say. 'Stop this ridiculous behaviour IMMEDIATELY or I shall cease your supply of Multi-Cheerios forthwith.' (Mrs S likes her Multi-Cheerios. She enjoys seeing how many she can loop onto her beak at once.)

There is a very brief silence.

'I was only having a laugh,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Well Mrs Miggins is not amused,' I say. 'She's very upset. You should have more respect for your elders.'
'She should get a sense of humour,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Well sometimes, as you get older, you lose your sense of humour,' I explain. 'Especially the peurile part. It's called growing up and being responsible.'

Mrs Slocombe gives a huff, but I can see that the threat of a Multi-Cheerio famine has been enough to bring her to whatever senses she does have.
'I want you to go and apologise to Mrs Miggins now,' I say. 'And then go to the shops and buy her something nice like a bunch of flowers or a lace doily. Where's Mrs Pumphrey by the way?'

'Stuck to the Chesterfield after watching Derren Brown on the telly last night,' says Mrs Slocombe.