General Eleggtion

Firstly, an apology to Mrs Pumphrey.

'Well, about time too,' says Mrs Pumphrey. She is sitting opposite me, perched on the beehive, as I take up residence at my writing desk (a long since missed seat since returning to teaching.)

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'Look, I'm on the interwebbly now, ready to make amends.'
'You've been on the interwebbly TWICE since it happened, and ne'er a mention,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'This seat is very comfy by the way. What's it made from?'
'It isn't a seat, it's a beehive,' I say. 'And I don't think you'll be finding it so comfy when the new residents arrive in a few weeks. It's made from cedar. And zinc.'
'That'll be why it's warm,' says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Pumphrey, unfortunately, has been returned to her pink pants status by Mrs Slocombe. When sitting down, she needs all the warmth she can get.

'And who are these new residents?' continues Mrs Pumphrey. 'Not that squeaky pink thing that came and squirmed around on the floor yesterday, I hope. You'll never fit it in here,' and she taps the beehive with her foot. 'Not without a lot of squishing anyway.'
'That squeaky pink thing is my grand-daughter,' I say. 'Whom I have no intention of keeping in a beehive when she visits. The new residents are bees. Will be bees. When they arrive.'
'So what are they now?' asks Mrs Pumphrey.
'A glint in the Queen Bee's eye,' I say. For I have been reading voraciously about bees and know it takes three weeks for a bee to grow from egg to flight. So any bees that will be arriving at the end of May are still a couple of bee cycles away. (A bee cycle is nothing like a unicycle and should therefore not be confused. Unicycles might have more wheels than bees cycles, but the honey they produce is vile.)

'How many bees?' says Mrs Pumphrey. She is sounding rather suspicious.

'About 10,000 to start with,' I say.
'I see,' says Pumphrey. ' I'd better start knitting then.'

I think at this moment it will be unwise to engage Mrs Pumphrey in further enquiry vis a vis her knitting plans. All I know is that bees have 6 legs each, so if she's going for the bootee option, she's got her work well and truly cut out.

'Well, have you told them yet?' says Mrs Pumphrey, giving me a bit of a nudge.
'I'm just about to,' I say. 'Ahem...on Saturday 3rd April, Mrs Gloria Pumphrey maintained and extended her record of 'Biggest Egg Laid At Much Malarkey Manor' by producing a WHOPPER weighing in at 108 grammes. This is 15 grammes larger than the previous record, also held by Mrs Gloria Pumphrey. There, will that do?'
'Thank you,' said Mrs Pumphrey. (She's giving a little bow now, if you'd like to applaud.) 'Do continue.'

'And,' I continue, 'further more, based on her enormous egg laying prowess, Mrs Gloria Pumphrey would like to announce that she has today been to Buckingham Palace and announced to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II that she will be in the running for job of Prime Minister, given that Gordon Brown has finally flung in the towel.'

'Indeed,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And she was jolly pleased too. She said, 'One needs more sterling hens like you running the country.'
'Did she?' I say. 'DID SHE??'
'Not in so many words,' says Mrs P. 'But the implication was there.'

So there we have it. Mrs Pumphrey will be running for election to be Prime Minister of Britain. She is very excited. She is off now to begin her campaign in earnest ( a small village just north-east of the Manor). Mrs Miggins is her campaign manager (on the proviso that she gets to be Chancellor of the Eggschequer when Mrs Pumphrey wins.) Mrs Slocombe is making rosettes, and canvassing in Hotel Chocolat, Thorntons, and the chocolate aisles of most major supermarkets. She is angling for post of Minister for Eggducation. But I want that job so she'll have to arm wrestle me for it. (No pecking allowed.)

And although he doesn't know it yet, Andy will be writing the party manifesto (Mrs Pumphrey was very impressed by the speech he made at our wedding.)

And then, on 6th May, it will be up to you, the great British eleggtorate to return, via democratic voting, Mrs Pumphrey to her rightful post.

The one at the end of the garden. Next to the dust bath.