Digging' the chickin'

'I'm getting a bit fed up standing under this tree with frozen feet,' says Mrs Miggins, as I battle my way into the South Wing grounds of Cluckinghen Palace for the fourth day to dig the girls out. It is gone 7 a.m, it is dark, it is freezing, and chicken keeping is becoming a bit of a challenging rescue mission each morning.

'Well,' I say, 'you can always try moving about a bit. The snow is gradually melting.'
'Is that what it is?' says Mrs Slocombe, appearing from the pod, dragging a pile of straw behind her. 'I thought it was marshmallow.'

I forget that this is the first decent blob of snow that Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Pumphrey have ever seen. There was a bit of a blob back in February, but nothing like we've had since Friday.

'No, it's snow,' I say. I put out fresh food - layers pellets, lettuce and apple, change their water bowl which manages to freeze over several times during the day, and fill up their pod with fresh straw. 'And will you leave the straw inside the pod please? You are making a right Royal mess by dragging it around like that.'
'But it keeps our toesies warm,' said Mrs Slocombe, kicking the straw around a bit. 'And it also gives us something to do when we're stranded under the tree.'
'You aren't stranded,' I say, 'you can always venture forth a little further than the three foot you've managed over the weekend. Being stranded means not being able to move at all. You're just being lazy. And I've been trying to clear the snow so you can spread out a bit. Trouble is, where do you put it? There's just so much of the stuff.'

'I could tell you where to put it...' begins Mrs Miggins. Snow, it seems, has done nothing to improve her humour.
'That won't be necessary, ' I say, leaning on my shovel for a breather. 'Where's Mrs Pumphrey, by the way?'

'That's a good question,' says Mrs Miggins. 'She was up early this morning, said she was going ski-ing in the North Wing. She said she liked the look of the marshmallow slope.'
'And?' I say, peering towards the North Wing, where the snow was like pizza - deep pan, crisp and even.
'And we can't find her,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I've tried her pager, I've tried yodelling, but she appears to have vanished.'
'Mobile phone?' I say.
'In the pod, on charge,' says Mrs Miggins. 'It's because she's white, you see. She's blending in with the current surroundings.'
'She's camel flahajed,' says Mrs Slocombe, who has now finished flinging straw around. 'Are you sure this isn't marshmallow?'
'Positive,' I say.
'I suppose that explains why it wasn't holding its form over the fire on the toasting fork last night,' sighs Mrs Slocombe. 

'I suppose,' I say, 'that I'm going to have to organise a search party for her.'
'No need,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Tango Pete's already out with his four-wheel drive and his Saint Bernard called Bernard. He'll find Mrs Pumphrey, don't you fret.'

I'm not fretting. Being a chicken keeper in the snow has been very testing on the nerves. Locating a white chicken wearing skis in a snow drift would be the pinnacle of testiness.

I carry on with snow removal duties, Mrs Miggins carries on grumping about cold feet and Mrs Slocombe starts to build a snow cock, now she knows the snow is snow and not marshmallow, which isn't reknowned for its modelling capabilities.

The roar of an engine and the bark of a dog called Bernard interrupts our various activities.

'Did you find her?' I say, as Tango Pete alights from his 4 x 4.
'No,' says Tango Pete. 'Not a sight, not a sound, not a cluck, not a squawk. (I would like to say at this point that the 'squawk' is very difficult to remember how to spell. It gets me every time.)
'Oh,' I say. 'That's very disturbing. Now what do we do?'

We stand in the snow, me and Mrs Miggins, Mrs Slocombe and Tango Pete. Our friend and colleague is missing. This is a calamity. An eerie silence descends. My heart is starting to beat in a panicky sort of way and I'm feeling guilty for feeling narky about the difficulty of my chicken keeping duties these last few days.

And then...

'BOO!!'

We jump out of our skin and feathers.

'GOT YOU!!' crows Mrs Pumphrey, which is rather alarming. You know the saying - 'A whistling woman and crowing hen is neither good for God nor men.'

'WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?' yells Mrs Miggins. 'WE'VE BEEN WORRIED SICK ABOUT YOU. WELL, ME AND BETTY HAVE; SHE DOESN'T CARE.' And she points an accusing wing in my direction (which is half way up the tree, given the fright I've just endured.)

'I've been here all along,' laughs Mrs Pumphrey.
'Camel flahajed in the snow!' says Mrs Slocombe, who joins in the laughter, because she likes a practical joke.

Anyway, we all have a swig of brandy from Bernard's barrel, even me and I can't stand the stuff, and then we troop into the Manor to toast some proper marshmallows, which is a much drier activity than trying to toast lumps of snow.

Snow - it was the best of times and the worst of times. Or is that another tale altogether??