The Right Decision??

'You're doing what????' says Miggins. We're sharing girl-time at the hairdressers; me getting my roots done and Miggo having a feather extension to cover up the thin patches where she has embarked on this year's moult.

'You heard,' I say, although it's possible she might not, given she has a large plastic cap covering her head as she's decided to have a few gold highlights put through at the same time as the extensions. She also has another plastic cap covering her tail and nether regions, but that wouldn't, as far as I'm aware, affect her hearing.

'Are you mad?' says Miggins. She is suitably appalled at my decision to take on a teaching job to put down her copy of 'Hiya!!' magazine, where she's been entranced by an article about Katie Price and Jeremy Clarkson in some kind of Ford Focus versus Ford KA drag racing event. 'I thought you were a writer?'

'I am a writer,' I say. 'First and foremost, a writer is the occupation that most defines my existence. Unfortunately, it's not raking in the huge wodges of dosh I need to cover some unexpected expenses that life has thrust upon me and in order to alleviate the feeling I am drowning in a financial tsunami, I need to get back to paid work. And I get paid very well, thank you, for being a fully qualified teacher.'
'Fair enough,' says Miggins. She shifts in her chair. 'Should my head be tingling?' she asks.
'Well, it might for a bit,' I say. 'But if the tingle turns into a severe burning sensation, you need to tell you hairdresser, or you'll end up with less feathers, not more.'
'So, are you giving up the writing?' says Miggins.
'Absolutely not!' I say. 'Writing will keep me sane. I've had a good year and a bit writing full time. I'm not going to throw the experience away. That would be crazy.'
'And Much Malarkey Manor?' says Miggins.
'Will continue uninterrupted,' I say firmly, because my mostly daily ramblings seem to afford several people with a modicum of entertainment.
'Good,' says Miggins, 'because I'm getting far too old to be searching for a new outlet for my obvious wit and creativity. And Mrs Slocombe will go even more crackers if we have to hush our beaks. You know how stress affects her.'
'Affects who?' shouts Mrs Slocombe from across the salon. She and Mrs Pumphrey have also come for a hair-do, although they aren't losing as many feathers in the moult as Mrs Miggins.
'You, you numpty airhead,' says Miggins. 'She's going back to teaching but you aren't to worry. It won't affect normal service in any way, shape or form.'
'Well, that's no good,' says Mrs S. 'I mean, if she's going back to teaching, she'll be earning lots of money, and us hens should benefit from some it, after all we have to put up with in that God-forsaken hole laughingly called Cluckinghen Palace.'
'Ahem,' I cough, 'I can hear you, you know.'
'That was the whole point,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Well, I happen to think Cluckinghen Palace is a very well appointed set of accommodation for hens,' I say.
'You would,' sniffs Slocombe, 'you don't have to live there.'

'So,'says Mrs Miggins, sensing the possibility of an embarrassing hair-salon fracas in the offing, 'what brought about this sudden decision?'
I release Mrs Slocombe from a half-nelson and she lets go of my ear, where she's drawn only the minimum of blood.
'We need the money,' I sigh, settling back into my chair. Mrs Slocombe gives my leg a kick as she heads back to her chair, and does that 'I'm watching you' sign, flicking her wing back and forth from her eyes.
'Is that all?' says Miggins.
'Yes,' I say, sighing again at the fiscal ignorance of chickens. 'That's all.'
'Well,' says Miggins, 'I can lend you some money to tide you over, if that's all you need.'
'That's very kind,' I say, 'but...'
'No buts,' she interrupts. 'You can have all the money us hens have earned through our eggs sales this last few months. How much is it exactly?'
'Seventeen pounds,' I say.

'There!' says Miggins, triumphantly. 'Seventeen pounds! More than enough to see you through Christmas, and getting Chris and Leane settled into their new flat, and starting your grand plan for Andy's fortieth birthday, and arranging something nice for your Mum's seventieth, and buying a baby buggy and cot, and moving house and getting your hair coloured every six weeks.'

'Thank you,' I say. 'You are too kind.'

And I spend the rest of our girl-time thinking wouldn't it be lovely if we could all view the financial worries we face in this world through the eyes of a chicken. We'd know our bank manager's knees very well for a start!