Up in the air

'Why has Cluckinghen Palace become high rise?'

This is the question posed by Mrs Miggins on seeing the Eglu pod perched atop a table top in the garden.

'Think of it as penthouse rather than high rise,' I say. After all, we do have certain standards to maintain here at the Manor.

'Penthouse schmenthouse,' says Miggins. 'What's our house doing on a table? And,' she adds, with a withering stare, 'what's more to the point, how are we supposed to reach it?' And she cocks a leg to prove the point that the distance between her outstretched toe and the top of the table is at least, ooooh, 36 inches. Miggins manages to balance for all of five seconds before keeling over onto her back. And there she lays in the grass, struggling like an upended beetle to right herself.

'I think you may be over-reacting to the situation,' I say.
'I'm proving the point that I am two and a hlaf years old and as such am too ancient to able to jump THAT high,' says Mrs Miggins.

Well, I think, I saw you wrestling a worm from Mrs Pumphrey this morning, no holds barred, so I think there's some energy in the old bird yet. But I don't say this because if there is one thing I have learned from my two years of chicken keeping and that is never to argue with a tetchy hen.

'You haven't answered my question,' says Miggins. She hauls herself to her feet and brushes off her Telly Tubby costume (she's running the London Marathon later dressed as Dipsy but only because her first choice of La-La was already out on hire).

'Well,' I say. 'We're going to instal a ladder...'
'A ladder???' interrupts Miggins a la Lady Bracknell.
'And you can climb the ladder...'
'A LADDER????'
'It's very simple,' I say. 'Hugh F-W says so. All I need to do is train you...'
'What do you think I am?' demands Miggins. 'A bloomin' Labrador??'
'...by placing food at strategic places up the rungs,' I say.
'What kind of food?' says Miggins.
'I was thinking layers pellets,' I say.
'Think again,' says Miggins.
'Sunflower seeds?' I say.
'Possibly...'
'Grapes?'
'Warmer...'
'Snail sushi?'
'Now you might be talking,' says Miggins. 'But I shall have to go and consult Betty and Gloria. I mean, I might be too old to climb a ladder, but Mrs Pumphrey is too fat and Mrs Slocombe is too mad. There are Health and Safety issues to consider. ' And she gives me one last and sinister look before stropping off to find the others. Well, as best as one can strop in a Dipsy costume.

Anyway, on our return from Bee Keeping Part Three, I find a note attached to the back door. It is headed - 'OUR DEMANDS' and looks like it has been written in Mrs Pumphrey's 'Flaming Sunset' lipstick. It says :

1) Ideally we would like a stairlift. We have ordered some suitable brochures for your perusal and someone called Darren from 'Stairway to Heaven' is coming round Wednesday fortnight to give you a quote.

2) If stairlift proves financially contraining, i.e you don't think we are worth the money even though we have kept you amply supplied in eggs and entertainment for the last two years, then a set of three graduated mounting blocks might a be suitable alternative.

3) Mrs Slocombe is keen to have a basket and pulley system. Betty and I are giving this dubious idea some thought because mad as it seems, it's still better than your stupid ladder idea

4) Mrs Slocombe is also keen on pogo sticks. However, she is going to have to work really hard to convince us of that one, but ditto above.

5) We shall consider the ladder idea provided the angle of ascent is no greater than 15% and each rung is padded with velvet to protect our feet.

6) Have you thought about a ski lift? We suggest you do.

7) Or put the pod back on the ground. We know it's human nature to insist on mending something that isn't broken, but we are chickens and we know when to leave well alone.

8) If food bribery is to be used, we have agreed universally that nothing less than canapes of Royal Garden Party standard will be acceptable.

I put the list of demands on the kitchen table. I think, I hope 60,000 bees aren't this demanding. Three chickens are bad enough to cope with, but 60,000 bees might well send me over the edge.