All in a Quango

'The Government are getting rid of Tango!' shrieks Mrs Slocombe. 'What am I going to drink when we go for our girls' night out?'
'And what about poor Tango Pete?' shrieks Mrs Pumphrey, in an equal flap, but egged on, I suspect, by poor mad Mrs Slocombe.
'I think you'll find the Government are getting rid of a few quangos,' I say. 'Not Tango.'
'What's a quango?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'They are groups of people, like a society or club, who receives funding and senior appointments from the Government,' I say. 'A bit like a semi-public watchdog, only with a huge dollop of government self-interest involved.'
'Like spying?' says Mrs Miggins.
'I think so,' I say, only I'm not 100% certain because anything remotely political/ senior management/ governing makes me nod off/switch off/ kick off.
'Does Quango taste like Tango?' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Because if it does, I'm willing to give it a try.'
'No-one is getting rid of Tango,' I say, 'although it wouldn't be a bad idea if someone did. It must play havoc with one's teeth, all that high sugar fizzy orange.'
Mrs Slocombe flashes me a smile. 'Mine are perfect, ' she says.
'There is something very rare about hens' teeth,' I admit.
'And what about Tango Pete?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Will his name be safe? He's just had a new batch of business cards and headed notepaper printed.'
'Tango Pete can be Tango Pete until his dying day,' I say.
'Good,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only there's a new series of Strictly Come Dancing coming up and he can't be changing his successful formula at this late stage.'
'No,' I agree. 'Heaven forefend that he should have to start this series known as 'Paso Doble Pete' or 'Cha-cha Pete' or 'Viennese Pete.'
'Sounds like a biscuit,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Pass me a Viennese Pete, would you? Ahahahahahaha!'

At this moment, a huge lorry pulls into the driveway.
'What's this?' I say, as the driver knocks on the door and I find myself signing a delivery note.
'3,000 two-litre bottles of Tango,' he says. 'Having a party are we?'
I look back into the kitchen. Mrs Slocombe is staring at the ceiling and whistling.
'Mrs Slocombe?' I say. 'Do you know anything about this?'
Mrs Slocombe hesitates for a moment. She is wondering if she can get to the back door and the safety of the garden before I can. Luckily, she remembers to use the height/stride ratio and, not wishing to be trampled in the rush, decides to own up.
'I had a bit of a panic buy on the interwebbly last night,' she says.
'And where do you plan to store 3,000 two-litre bottles of Tango?' I ask.
'In the greenhouse?' she says, hopefully.
'No way, Betty,' I say. 'Think again.

Mrs Slocombe goes into a huddle with Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey. They are in deep conference for almost five minutes, coming up for air only when the close proximity of so many feathers brings on Mrs Miggins' feather-phobia.

'Well?' I say. 'What's the plan?'
'We are going to set up a stall out in the park,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'We are going to soak the labels off the Tango and market it as 'Quango'.'
'You can't do that,' I say. 'You'll be got by Trading Standards.'
'Trading Standards do not apply to chickens,' says Mrs Miggins. 'And I dare you to read all the Trading Standards legislation and prove otherwise.'
'Besides,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'There will be such panic that the Government are getting rid of Tango, that people will snap it up before you know it. We'll be gone before you can say 'Bubbles up your nostrils.'
'Is the Government getting rid of Tango?' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Good grief, we must go out and buy up more stocks immediately.'

On a more sane note, 'Hurrah!' that Hugh F-W is back on the telly with a new series of River Cottage. Of course, it's all his fault we got chickens in the first place. But such is his exuberance about the type of life Andy and I aspire to live. that we'll forgive him.