Lucky Day

Firstly, a big Malarkey welcome to new a new visitor to the Manor - Staci! Thank you for hopping on board and I hope you enjoy the atmosphere.

Secondly, I've just had a book clear out (only a minor amount of sobbing on the stairs, clutching precious tomes to my chest before consigning them to the box-to-take-to-the-charity-shop), thus a message for Cousin Richard - the whole range of Philippa Gregory(one careful lady owner) if you want them. Let me know. Perhaps Auntie P can pick them up in her (dented!!!!!!) car on Wednesday????

Thirdly, Mrs Miggins has ONE tail feather left. She looks like an idiot.

'I do not!' says Mrs Miggins. 'I look like Minnie-Haha. I look like a coquettish squaw with a cute feather in her head-band, standing on the banks of the Shenandoah River waiting for Hiawatha to come along in his bear-skin.'
'Who's coming along with a bare skin?' says Mrs Slocombe (who laid an egg yesterday after a good 2 months lay-off). 'Not Tango Pete, I hope. I've only just had my porridge.'
'A b-e-a-r skin,' says Mrs Miggins. 'From a b-e-a-r.'
'Are you sure it's M-i-n-n-i-e, and not m-i-n-i as in car?' says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Pumphrey has heard of my plans to construct a chicken winter gazebo from Wilkos plain shower curtains. She is not, as Malarkey follower Di predicted, happy with the 'plain' aspect. She wants either a) giant pink gerberas b) giant yellow daisies or c) Rennie Macintosh roses.
'If it was m-i-n-i,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'she would be Mini-car-car!!'

And Misses Pumphrey and Slocombe fall about laughing at the expense of poor, semi-naked Miggins.
'Come into the kitchen, Mrs M,' I say. 'And I'll measure you up for a long cardi.'
'Could I possibly have a liberty bodice, too?' says Miggins. 'Only as I get older, things seem to be heading south a bit too readily. As you know from your own experiences, of course.'

I am not offended. Us birds of a certain age with dubious egg production must stick together.

And fourthly, today is the 10th of the 10th of the 10th. Which is supposed to be very lucky.

Here are the lucky things that have happened so far today.
1) The chickens got to have free-range of the garden, now all edible produce has been harvested.
2) Andy climbed a ladder and changed three light bulbs without falling off.
3) There isn't a 3.

That's it. I suppose it's only Archer's Omnibus time, so plenty of the day left for more lucky happenings. But it got me wondering. Does luck just happen or, as many people believe, do you have to make it happen? I know that sitting in a chair staring at TV makes nothing happen except eye strain, brain muffling and constipation. But does going out and doing stuff, or taking risks actually perpetuate 'luck.'

Some people don't believe in luck. I do.

'So do I,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Listen...luck, luck, luck, kcluckluckluck..cluck, cluck,cluck...ouch!'
'Well, stand still then,' I say. 'I can't possibly measure you for a liberty bodice if you keep fidgeting like that. You know what they - many a slip twixt pin and chick.'
'Do they say that?' says Miggins.
'Well, I say that,' I say.

It is also Old Michaelmas Day. Yesterday, the Michaelmas daisies in the garden bloomed. How's that for timing? Or was it just luck? It is also St Paulinus of York's Day. Apparently, St Paulinus was riding his ass (like you do) across Lincolnshire, when he realised his ass was hungry. He spotted a farmer with a full sack of grain.
'Mayst I have a handful of lovely grain from your very full grain sack for my hungry ass?' asked St Paulinus of the Farmer. (I'm paraphrasing here.)
'Sack?' said the Farmer. 'This isn't a sack. It's a stone.'

This was because the Farmer was a) a meany and b) a smug git who was much too happy with his ample grain store c) possibly mad for thinking he could mess with a saint.

'A stone?' said St Paulinus. 'Then a stone it shall be!'

And he turned the grain sack into a stone, because saints can perform pointless miracles like that.

Unlucky for the farmer. Or was it stupidity. Or meanness?

Unlucky for the ass because he was still hungry.

'Why does no-one ever think of the ass?' says Miggins. 'That's what I want to know.'

Anyway, the Sack Stone still stands in the middle of a field in Lincolnshire. Attempts to move it have resulted in either death for the movee, or global disaster, like the onset of World War One.

You see? You try and generate a bit of luck for your ass, and this happens.

But ever the optimist, I wish you your own spot of luck on this, a lucky day.