What Shall I Write About Today?

I said to Andy, 'What shall I blog about today?'
He said, 'I don't know,' which was VERY unhelpful, because sometimes I need a bit of blog shove to get me going, especially when my brain is on a creative go slow, as it is at the moment.

So I went into the garden, to speak to the hens, for they are wise in all manner of the arts, their version of Rodin's 'The Kiss' still drawing visitors from as far apart as Japan and Hull, to wonder at its glory.

'What you need is an inspirational break,' said Mrs Miggins.
'I'll give her one,' said Mrs Slocombe, already sharpening her beak on a shaving strap and fixing her gimlet eye on my open-toed sandalled feet.
'Just you try it,' I said.
'You're such a spoilsport,' said Slocombe, and she shuffled off to the South Gardens to see if there were any stray feathers to be had.
'As it happens,' I said, 'we are off on an inspirational break soon, to celebrate our wedding anniversary. To Stratford -upon-Avon.'
'You always go there,' said Mrs Miggins.
'It has become a bit of a tradition,' I admitted. 'We're going to see 'As You Like It' whilst we are there.'
'And how do you like it?' asked Mrs Miggins.
'White, no sugar and considerably stronger than gnat's wee,' I said. 'With a digestive or possibly Hobnob on the side.'
'Hmmmm,' said Miggins. 'That could be the root of your problem.'
'What problem?' I said.
'Your lack of blog inspiration,' said Miggins. 'You see, you were totally non-creative in your response to a potentially cheeky-making question. So, I'll ask you again...how do you like it?'

I stared at her blankly.

'I'm sorry. I don't get you,' I said.

Mrs Miggins sighed.
'Mrs Pumphrey, would you join me for a demonstration, please?' she shouted.
'Is it urgent?' called Mrs Pumphrey from the penthouse. 'Only I'm doing my roots.'
'Wrap a towel round your head, they'll keep,' said Miggins.

Mrs Pumphrey duly appeared, turban-headed and with a suspicious-looking cerise streak dripping down her face and off the end of her beak.
'Is that one of my best Christy's?' I asked, eyeing the towel she carried atop her pin-head.
'I found it in the garden,' said Mrs P hotly. 'It blew in with the wind. Finders keepers, losers can't look after their property.'

'Mrs Pumphrey,' said Mrs Miggins. 'I am going to ask you a question and I want the first response that comes into your chicken brain, okay?'
'Oh, goody!' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'I love games like this. Fire away.'

Mrs Miggins coughed.
'How do you like it?' she said.
'Topped up with gin, served in a pineapple with Lionel Blair on the side,' said Pumphrey, without missing a beat.
'You see!' said Miggins. 'Creativity in bucketloads. You're thinking too much, that's your problem. See what Pumphrey came out with straight away. She doesn't think about it, she just says.'
'I tried that once,' I said, 'and almost got punched for my troubles.'
'Learn to duck quicker,' advised Miggins.
'Try again, try again!' said Mrs Pumphrey.
'Okay...how do you like it again?' said Miggins, keen to prove her point.
'With a chintz half-curtain, a parlour palm and a barely warm waffle iron,' said Mrs Pumphrey, triumphantly.

Well, of course, it was all too much for me. I left them to it. I mean, I only popped out for a quick bit of inspiration for a blog. And where did it leave me? Back at square one.

I'll let you know if anything worth writing about happens before today drifts into the past.