'The exit polls have suggested that I am the new Prime Minister,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'So I'm going to bed now. Lots to do tomorrow - running the country and all that.'
'Oh really?' I say. 'And what exit poll would that be?'
'The one where Mrs Miggins agrees I'd be a good Prime Minister and then pecks Mrs Slocombe until she agrees, too,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And of course I voted for myself, which means I have received one hundred percent of the electoral goat.'
'Surely you mean vote?' I say.
'No, I mean goat,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'His name is Percy and he's in the back garden tied to the washing line. He's all right for now because we got him a vegetable dhansak and pilau rice from the takeaway, but you might want to consider moving him before you hang out your next lot of smalls.'
I know I ought to look in the garden, to check on the goat status of Much Malarkey Manor, but it has been a long day and I don't think I have the courage or the strength.
'So,' I say, changing the subject, 'what will be your first act as Prime Minister Pumphrey?'
Mrs Pumphrey leans against the fridge where she is currently rooting for a Dairy Lea Cheese Dipper.
'I thought I'd get a new cabinet for the dining room,' she says. 'Something in oak. And then I was going to have a holiday. It's been quite exhausting, this campaigning lark.'
'Nothing more global, then?' I say.
'Like what?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Well, like sorting out the economy?' I say.
'All ready sorted,' says Mrs P. 'We've printed more money.'
'I'm not sure it works like that...' I begin.
'Of course it works like that,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'If you need something because you haven't got enough, then you make more. Like you making shortbread,' she added.
Ah, I think. I can understand an analogy that ends in biscuits.
'And what about education?' I say.
'Wasted on the young,' declares Mrs Pumphrey. 'So I'm banning it for people under twenty one. Keep children in boxes until they show an inclination to learn, then release them into schools. '
'Health care?' I venture.
'Go to work on an egg,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Make me a mug of cocoa, will you? I'd do it myself only I'm Prime Minister now, and I'm going to claim your services on expenses.'
'You can't do that,' I say. 'It's immmoral.'
Mrs Pumphrey fixes me with a beady eye.
'You are assuming that chickens have morals,' she says. 'And that is a very dangerous thing to do.'
So I make Mrs P a mug of cocoa because I don't want to go to bed with holes in my knee caps.
And there we go. No need to sit up all night waiting for the results to come in. Mrs Pumphrey is the new Prime Minister and it sounds like she's already on top of things. And however you voted today (you did vote, didn't you?) , just be thankful you won't wake up in the morning with a goat called Percy tethered to your washing line.
Showing posts with label Mrs Pumphrey. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mrs Pumphrey. Show all posts
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
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.
'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.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Pumphrey's Purple Pants Palaver
Today was designated release day for Mrs Pumphrey. Her under wing wound has healed over nicely, she is sprouting new bottom feathers and has spent the last two days wrecking her hospital room as a subtle way of saying 'I'M A BORED CHICKEN...GET ME OUT OF HERE!'
There were a couple of things we needed to do before we let her back into the bosom of the flock. One was to cover her in anti-peck spray, and the other was to disguise her still-pink-but-with-little-white-tufty-bits bottom with gentian violet spray. I have learned, you see, that hens adore the colour pink. I guess it's a girl thing. They will go for anything pink -like worms and tuna and other chickens bare bottoms. And with Mrs Pumphrey being white, her pink bum shows up more than say a pink bum on a brown hen does, thus making her an easy and obvious target for, say a loonie like Mrs Slocombe.
Have you ever used gentian violet spray? If you haven't, and you plan to in the future, can I offer a word of advice. ALWAYS WEAR GLOVES. And old clothes. And DO NOT use it in a high wind, like we did this morning. Anyway, the upshot of the Mrs Pumphrey/ Mrs Slocombe swapover is that there is a purple chicken running around Cluckinghen Palace and she ain't doing it for Gay Pride. Cor blimey, what a palaver! Firstly, Andy held Mrs P upside-down and I did the spraying. Purple mist everywhere. We returned Mrs P to the run. Mrs Poo comes over.
'Hello,' she says. 'Back from the wars?'
'Yes,' says Pumphrey. 'The accommodation was nice but room service was terrible. It's good to be home.'
'Nice pants,' says Poo. 'Give us a twirl.'
'They're purple,' says Pumphrey.
'Hang on,' says Poo, 'I think you've got a bit of fluff on them.'
And she pecks off one of Mrs Pumphrey's new feather tufts that's taken her over a week to grow!!
'Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!!' I yell.
'What? What??' yells Andy, who's thinking, job done, better get this purple stuff off my hands before we go to Canterbury.
'Poo is going for Pumphrey's new feathers,' I wail. 'This is not what is supposed to happen. This is not part of my happy re-integration plan.'
Pumphrey is recaptured using fresh lettuce from Miggo's raised bed. (She's got wise to the apple trick which is pretty impressive for a chicken with three brain cells). On closer inspection, we discover the gentian violet hasn't been absorbed over the entire pink area and a couple of tiny patches are still undisguised. Andy takes charge. There is to be no more of my girly squirty-squirt handling of the situation. What is needed here is a good dowsing via the determined sprayings of a professional veterinary surgeon. He's got her upside-down and drenchedbefore I can say 'My isn't it blowy out here', finishing with a dose of anti-peck spray for good measure. Everywhere is purple, including most of Mrs Pumphrey.
Back she goes, completely camouflaged.
'Where's Mrs Pumphrey gone?' asks Miggins, who has made a selection of tiny sandwiches and some cream horns and has appeared with them balanced on her best china two-tiered cake stand ready to start the 'Welcome Home Gloria Pumphrey' party.
'I have no idea,' says Poo. 'One minute she was here with her purple pants and now she has disappeared.'
'Here I am,' says Pumphrey, although no-one can see her because of the gentian violet spray.
'I can hear her,' says Poo.
'Me, too,' says Miggo. 'In fact, I can sense her. Like a ghostly presence.'
'Hmmm, I know what you mean,' says Poo. 'There's eyes. Watching us. Spooky.'
And here is Mrs Pumphrey modelling her new purple pants...
There were a couple of things we needed to do before we let her back into the bosom of the flock. One was to cover her in anti-peck spray, and the other was to disguise her still-pink-but-with-little-white-tufty-bits bottom with gentian violet spray. I have learned, you see, that hens adore the colour pink. I guess it's a girl thing. They will go for anything pink -like worms and tuna and other chickens bare bottoms. And with Mrs Pumphrey being white, her pink bum shows up more than say a pink bum on a brown hen does, thus making her an easy and obvious target for, say a loonie like Mrs Slocombe.
Have you ever used gentian violet spray? If you haven't, and you plan to in the future, can I offer a word of advice. ALWAYS WEAR GLOVES. And old clothes. And DO NOT use it in a high wind, like we did this morning. Anyway, the upshot of the Mrs Pumphrey/ Mrs Slocombe swapover is that there is a purple chicken running around Cluckinghen Palace and she ain't doing it for Gay Pride. Cor blimey, what a palaver! Firstly, Andy held Mrs P upside-down and I did the spraying. Purple mist everywhere. We returned Mrs P to the run. Mrs Poo comes over.
'Hello,' she says. 'Back from the wars?'
'Yes,' says Pumphrey. 'The accommodation was nice but room service was terrible. It's good to be home.'
'Nice pants,' says Poo. 'Give us a twirl.'
'They're purple,' says Pumphrey.
'Hang on,' says Poo, 'I think you've got a bit of fluff on them.'
And she pecks off one of Mrs Pumphrey's new feather tufts that's taken her over a week to grow!!
'Noooooooooooooooooo!!!!!' I yell.
'What? What??' yells Andy, who's thinking, job done, better get this purple stuff off my hands before we go to Canterbury.
'Poo is going for Pumphrey's new feathers,' I wail. 'This is not what is supposed to happen. This is not part of my happy re-integration plan.'
Pumphrey is recaptured using fresh lettuce from Miggo's raised bed. (She's got wise to the apple trick which is pretty impressive for a chicken with three brain cells). On closer inspection, we discover the gentian violet hasn't been absorbed over the entire pink area and a couple of tiny patches are still undisguised. Andy takes charge. There is to be no more of my girly squirty-squirt handling of the situation. What is needed here is a good dowsing via the determined sprayings of a professional veterinary surgeon. He's got her upside-down and drenchedbefore I can say 'My isn't it blowy out here', finishing with a dose of anti-peck spray for good measure. Everywhere is purple, including most of Mrs Pumphrey.
Back she goes, completely camouflaged.
'Where's Mrs Pumphrey gone?' asks Miggins, who has made a selection of tiny sandwiches and some cream horns and has appeared with them balanced on her best china two-tiered cake stand ready to start the 'Welcome Home Gloria Pumphrey' party.
'I have no idea,' says Poo. 'One minute she was here with her purple pants and now she has disappeared.'
'Here I am,' says Pumphrey, although no-one can see her because of the gentian violet spray.
'I can hear her,' says Poo.
'Me, too,' says Miggo. 'In fact, I can sense her. Like a ghostly presence.'
'Hmmm, I know what you mean,' says Poo. 'There's eyes. Watching us. Spooky.'
And here is Mrs Pumphrey modelling her new purple pants...
Monday, 11 May 2009
Happy Birthday Andy, but first a message...
...from her Royal Highness, Queen Gloria Pumphrey of Pumbalonia...
'Greetin's end hair lair to all may loyal subjects. Today, it is Endy's birthday and the spot leight should, of course, be on 'im. But as aye em poorly end aye em therefore more important than what 'e is, aye shall 'ave first say today.
Aye have been 'ugely touched bay the good wishes bestowed upon me during may illness from you, may loyal fens. Therefore, aye would like to say a few thank you's. Firstly, to Olly end the Gemsta, for your kaind words of encouragement. And to Jean, whom arrived yesterday with en epple for myself, which aye ate all in one 'it, so aye ended up with a mono-boob thet would make Jordan green with henvy.
To Endy, for the administration of mind-altering drugs end allowing me to poop on 'is socks. End to Denise, for cleanin' ite may 'ospital wing every mornin', feedin' me extra tit-bits end keepin' me company in may hour of need. Aye just wish she'd stop singin' bleedin' 'Danny Boy' to me. It gives me the willies.
As aye speak to you all from the Music Room of the Pumphrey Wing, aye should like to re-assure you all thet aye am scabbin' over nicely end well on the road to recovery. Thenk you all.'
That was a message from one pampered chicken who is getting ideas above her station.
So, onto Andy's birthday. Bacon sandwiches and many, many pressies for breakfast. Whilst he went to work, complete with a 'Birthday Boy' rosette (a half day only, as he worked Saturday morning) I strung up balloons and banners everywhere, made a big sod off chocolate fudge cake covered in Maltesers and Smarties and created a proper kiddies tea party for lunch with crisps, sausage rolls, sarnies, jelly and chocolate fingers. At work, Andy's surprise present from the hens arrived according to plan. This was a balloon chicken that sings 'You are my sunshine' and it caused much entertainment.
Back home, we had our party, ate too much and then went for a walk in the park to work some of it off. We got a good workout because although the sun was shining, it was also blowing a gale of a wind, which somehow we managed to walk into all the way round.
There is a birthday dinner planned for this evening. Nachos and dips, followed by herby chicken, new potatoes and salad, followed by Eton mess, then cheese and biscuits. But as we lie here, slobbing on the sofa, both of us thinking we need to start that diet TOMORROW it might not get cooked, let alone eaten!
'Greetin's end hair lair to all may loyal subjects. Today, it is Endy's birthday and the spot leight should, of course, be on 'im. But as aye em poorly end aye em therefore more important than what 'e is, aye shall 'ave first say today.
Aye have been 'ugely touched bay the good wishes bestowed upon me during may illness from you, may loyal fens. Therefore, aye would like to say a few thank you's. Firstly, to Olly end the Gemsta, for your kaind words of encouragement. And to Jean, whom arrived yesterday with en epple for myself, which aye ate all in one 'it, so aye ended up with a mono-boob thet would make Jordan green with henvy.
To Endy, for the administration of mind-altering drugs end allowing me to poop on 'is socks. End to Denise, for cleanin' ite may 'ospital wing every mornin', feedin' me extra tit-bits end keepin' me company in may hour of need. Aye just wish she'd stop singin' bleedin' 'Danny Boy' to me. It gives me the willies.
As aye speak to you all from the Music Room of the Pumphrey Wing, aye should like to re-assure you all thet aye am scabbin' over nicely end well on the road to recovery. Thenk you all.'
That was a message from one pampered chicken who is getting ideas above her station.
So, onto Andy's birthday. Bacon sandwiches and many, many pressies for breakfast. Whilst he went to work, complete with a 'Birthday Boy' rosette (a half day only, as he worked Saturday morning) I strung up balloons and banners everywhere, made a big sod off chocolate fudge cake covered in Maltesers and Smarties and created a proper kiddies tea party for lunch with crisps, sausage rolls, sarnies, jelly and chocolate fingers. At work, Andy's surprise present from the hens arrived according to plan. This was a balloon chicken that sings 'You are my sunshine' and it caused much entertainment.
Back home, we had our party, ate too much and then went for a walk in the park to work some of it off. We got a good workout because although the sun was shining, it was also blowing a gale of a wind, which somehow we managed to walk into all the way round.
There is a birthday dinner planned for this evening. Nachos and dips, followed by herby chicken, new potatoes and salad, followed by Eton mess, then cheese and biscuits. But as we lie here, slobbing on the sofa, both of us thinking we need to start that diet TOMORROW it might not get cooked, let alone eaten!
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Cluckinghen Hospital - Pumphrey Wing, medical update
'Poor Mrs Pumphrey,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Poor, poor...'
'Stop!' I say. 'We did that yesterday. Today, we need to do a medical update. Your fans will have moved beyond the 'sympathy' phase and onto the 'gory detail' phase by now.'
'You're not going to take photos, are you?' says Pumphrey. 'Only I haven't had time to do my make-up this morning and my roots are showing.'
'They aren't roots,' I say. 'They are bum fluff tufts. And no, I'm not taking photos. I don't approve of car crash media.'
'Flum tum buffs?' repeats Pumphrey (she's been going heavy on the anti-biotics and pain-killers the last couple of days so isn't wholly co-herent. Nothing new there, then...)
'Bum fluff tufts,' I say carefully. 'You've been out of the reach of Mrs Slocombe for 2 days and already your bottom feathers are re-growing. Isn't that fab?'
'I'll say,' says Pumphrey, 'it's been mighty cold this winter, yee-haa, Calamity Pumphrey, yes sirree!'
Good grief, I think.
'So what's the plan, Stan?' continues Pumphrey. She has settled very nicely into the new hospital wing. I purchased a large rabbit cage yesterday, 2 feet wide by 3 feet long by Mrs Pumphrey high plus 4 inches. It has an easy clean plastic base, an easy access up and over side entrance large enough for big chicken removal and replacement, a deep bowl for food, a shallow bowl for more food and a drinking bottle. I lined the base with newspaper, shredded some more newspaper as scratch about medium, added some straw for a nest, put water in the deep bowl and dried food in the shallow bowl. I draped a towel artfully over one end to provide a privacy area, tucked the roosting bars into the corner and added some greens, sunflower seeds and apple.
'What about the drinking bottle,' said Mrs Pumphrey, eyeing the drinking bottle.
'Well, it's a bit surplus to requirements, isn't it?' I said. 'It's for rabbits, not hens.'
'Pity for it to go to waste, though,' said Pumphrey. 'Tell you what, fill it up with gin and you can hang it on the wall for an optic.'
'I don't think so,' I said.
Within two hours, the hospital looked as if a hurricane had blown through and stopped for a party on its way.
'I was just rearranging things to my taste,' said Pumphrey.
I removed the flimsy food and water bowls and replaced them with harder-to-kick-over bowls. I refilled them both, re-made the nest, changed the water soaked newspaper and re-located the roosting bars. I found an egg.
That was yesterday. Things have followed a pretty similar pattern for today. I found another egg (although it did look like it had come through the oviduct of a hen that had had a bit of shock.) Except I haven't had to sing today. You see, yesterday, Mrs Pumphrey was a bit unsettled for the hour or so after being introduced to her hospital wing. There was a lot of pacing up and down a la institutionalised polar bear in a zoo. There was much banging of the beak up and down the sides of the cage a la prisoner rattling their tin mug against their prison bars. And it didn't stop until I sang 'Danny Boy' to her. Five times.
No kidding. I started singing to calm her down. I tried 'Nellie the Elephant' - too boisterous (the trumpety-trump, trump trump truuuuuump bit was especially startling to poor Pumphrey's sensibilities). I tried 'The Ugly Duckling' - too emotional. I tried 'Daisy, Daisy,' which was okay provided I slowed the rhythm down a tad and sang it alto rather than soprano. But it was 'Danny Boy' which hit the spot and soon she was crooning along and swaying from side to side waving a chiffon scarf in the air. It had to be 'Danny Boy' didn't it? I HATE that song. I don't even know the words that well so had to make up my own version which personally I thought was far more entertaining than the original. But as long as I kept to the tune, Pumphrey was happy.
There has been no need for singing today. Mrs Pumphrey seems settled/ resigned/ madly in love with her new surroundings. I make regular half hour visits for a chat and to share an apple or sunflower seeds. Her wound has dried up, and although it still looks disgusting, the vet assures me it is healing well and Mrs Pumphrey will probably be outward bound back to the flock in a day or two.
And then? And then I have a Mrs Slocombe mission on my mind. The Pumphrey Wing will be renamed the Slocombe Psychiatric Unit. I am armed. I have anti-peck spray, gentian violet paint, cat food and tuna. I have a pecking block and 8 anti-pecking bits which I am assured are THE thing for persuading wayward hens out of their obsessive feather pecking habits.
Me versus Slocombe. They say it takes 2 weeks to break a chicken out of its bad habits.
'Who's they?' calls Mrs Slocombe from the back garden.
'Just 'they',' I say, darkly.
'Bring it on,' says Slocombe.
'My money's on the human,' says Miggins.
'I'm already selling tickets,' says Poo.
'Stop!' I say. 'We did that yesterday. Today, we need to do a medical update. Your fans will have moved beyond the 'sympathy' phase and onto the 'gory detail' phase by now.'
'You're not going to take photos, are you?' says Pumphrey. 'Only I haven't had time to do my make-up this morning and my roots are showing.'
'They aren't roots,' I say. 'They are bum fluff tufts. And no, I'm not taking photos. I don't approve of car crash media.'
'Flum tum buffs?' repeats Pumphrey (she's been going heavy on the anti-biotics and pain-killers the last couple of days so isn't wholly co-herent. Nothing new there, then...)
'Bum fluff tufts,' I say carefully. 'You've been out of the reach of Mrs Slocombe for 2 days and already your bottom feathers are re-growing. Isn't that fab?'
'I'll say,' says Pumphrey, 'it's been mighty cold this winter, yee-haa, Calamity Pumphrey, yes sirree!'
Good grief, I think.
'So what's the plan, Stan?' continues Pumphrey. She has settled very nicely into the new hospital wing. I purchased a large rabbit cage yesterday, 2 feet wide by 3 feet long by Mrs Pumphrey high plus 4 inches. It has an easy clean plastic base, an easy access up and over side entrance large enough for big chicken removal and replacement, a deep bowl for food, a shallow bowl for more food and a drinking bottle. I lined the base with newspaper, shredded some more newspaper as scratch about medium, added some straw for a nest, put water in the deep bowl and dried food in the shallow bowl. I draped a towel artfully over one end to provide a privacy area, tucked the roosting bars into the corner and added some greens, sunflower seeds and apple.
'What about the drinking bottle,' said Mrs Pumphrey, eyeing the drinking bottle.
'Well, it's a bit surplus to requirements, isn't it?' I said. 'It's for rabbits, not hens.'
'Pity for it to go to waste, though,' said Pumphrey. 'Tell you what, fill it up with gin and you can hang it on the wall for an optic.'
'I don't think so,' I said.
Within two hours, the hospital looked as if a hurricane had blown through and stopped for a party on its way.
'I was just rearranging things to my taste,' said Pumphrey.
I removed the flimsy food and water bowls and replaced them with harder-to-kick-over bowls. I refilled them both, re-made the nest, changed the water soaked newspaper and re-located the roosting bars. I found an egg.
That was yesterday. Things have followed a pretty similar pattern for today. I found another egg (although it did look like it had come through the oviduct of a hen that had had a bit of shock.) Except I haven't had to sing today. You see, yesterday, Mrs Pumphrey was a bit unsettled for the hour or so after being introduced to her hospital wing. There was a lot of pacing up and down a la institutionalised polar bear in a zoo. There was much banging of the beak up and down the sides of the cage a la prisoner rattling their tin mug against their prison bars. And it didn't stop until I sang 'Danny Boy' to her. Five times.
No kidding. I started singing to calm her down. I tried 'Nellie the Elephant' - too boisterous (the trumpety-trump, trump trump truuuuuump bit was especially startling to poor Pumphrey's sensibilities). I tried 'The Ugly Duckling' - too emotional. I tried 'Daisy, Daisy,' which was okay provided I slowed the rhythm down a tad and sang it alto rather than soprano. But it was 'Danny Boy' which hit the spot and soon she was crooning along and swaying from side to side waving a chiffon scarf in the air. It had to be 'Danny Boy' didn't it? I HATE that song. I don't even know the words that well so had to make up my own version which personally I thought was far more entertaining than the original. But as long as I kept to the tune, Pumphrey was happy.
There has been no need for singing today. Mrs Pumphrey seems settled/ resigned/ madly in love with her new surroundings. I make regular half hour visits for a chat and to share an apple or sunflower seeds. Her wound has dried up, and although it still looks disgusting, the vet assures me it is healing well and Mrs Pumphrey will probably be outward bound back to the flock in a day or two.
And then? And then I have a Mrs Slocombe mission on my mind. The Pumphrey Wing will be renamed the Slocombe Psychiatric Unit. I am armed. I have anti-peck spray, gentian violet paint, cat food and tuna. I have a pecking block and 8 anti-pecking bits which I am assured are THE thing for persuading wayward hens out of their obsessive feather pecking habits.
Me versus Slocombe. They say it takes 2 weeks to break a chicken out of its bad habits.
'Who's they?' calls Mrs Slocombe from the back garden.
'Just 'they',' I say, darkly.
'Bring it on,' says Slocombe.
'My money's on the human,' says Miggins.
'I'm already selling tickets,' says Poo.
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