The Seventh Day of Advent - Not So Silent Night

Back at Much Malarkey Manor, Mrs Miggins had completed the Easter Bunny Baskets and was stacking them carefully behind the Valentine hearts and flowers. 

'What next?' she muttered to herself, consulting her calendar. May Day, of course! 'Now, where did I store the Maypole?' she said. 

It was already dark outside, and Mrs Miggins was pretty certain the Maypole was in the gazebo at the bottom of the garden. What she should do, she thought, is wait until the morning and go to the gazebo then, but once she had an idea in her head, she needed to deal with it RIGHT NOW! 'No time like the present,' was her motto. Procrastinate was not a word in the Miggins dictionary mostly because she had once had to use the page upon which it was written as an emergency mop-up cloth for a particularly lax-in-the-bladder-department house guest.

All was still and quiet in the Manor. Normally at this time, Mrs Pumphrey would be in the Music Room practising her preludes, and Mrs Bennett would be home from work and relaxing her aching muscles in the sauna whilst catching up with 'The Archers.' Mrs Slocombe would be getting ready for the arrival of her bridge group, fretting no doubt about whether she had the right biscuits in because everyone knew how fussy Mrs Hoffenpfeffer was about her biscuits. And Mrs Poo would be on her daily cleaning round because she liked a spotless Manor and no-one could keep it quite as spotless as she. 

But this evening a Silent Night reigned. Mrs Miggins pulled on her overcoat and Wellington boots and, taking her enormous torch, marched off into the darkness. As she marched she whistled a happy tune, not because she was anxious about being in the dark on her own, you understand, but because she was rehearsing for the annual 'Whistling Woman and Crowing Hen' competition.

The gazebo was a goodly walk into the gardens at the Much Malarkey Manor, down a cobblestone path, through the lavender walk and under the willow arch. 'It is very dark out here,' said Miggins the Fearless to herself. 'Very, very, very d.....aaaaaaarggghhhhh!!!!'

'Oh my goodness!!' says Daisy. 'What has happened to Mrs Miggins?' 

'I don't know,' says Primrose. 'There could be any number of reasons why she said 'Aaaaaaarggghhhhh!!!'

'For example?' says Daisy.

'She might have trod in some doo-dah,' says Primrose. 'Or got her coat caught on a raspberry cane. Or slipped on a slug, or felt something clammy brush against her cheek, or maybe a burglar has leapt from the bushes and flashed his jewels at her...'

'STOP!' says Daisy. 'You are worrying me. Poor Mrs Miggins! Can we get back to the story? Like now?!'

'Take THAT!!' shouted Mrs Miggins. 'And that and that and THAT!!!' And she swung her enormous torch this way and that, twirling like a dervish and thanking God she had persevered with the Tai-Kwon-Do classes, especially when her sciatica was playing up. The sound of glass and metal connecting with flesh and skull resounded around the garden along with a variety of 'OUCHES!!' and 'EEEKS!!' and 'GEROFFS!!!!'

'I'll teach you to leap out of bushes at defenceless lady hens!' shouted Miggins the Marvellous, Ninja Hen Extraordinaire. 

'Laetitia! STOP!!! It's us!' whimpered two voices, weak and feeble and from somewhere near the ground. 

Mrs Miggins paused in her combat. 'Who is 'us?' she demanded, gripping the torch firmly, ready for more action at the blink of an eye. And she held up the light and shone it on the ground before her.

And there lying in a crumpled heap on the damp grass, were...

'Turtle Dave and Colin Bird!' said Mrs Miggins. 'Well! As I live and breathe, what are you two doing here and what's more to the point, why are lurking in my back garden in the dark?'

She held out her spare wing and helped the turtle and the blackbird to their feet.

'We thought we'd surprise you,' said Turtle Dave. 

'You certainly did that,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Why didn't you come to the front door like normal visitors?'

Colin Bird brushed down his shiny black coat. 'Well, we knew it was bridge night, and you'd likely be busy with the Easter eggs so we thought we'd camp out in the gazebo overnight and then rock up for a bacon roll and a cuppa first thing in the morning.'

'You silly pair of sausages,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Still, whilst you are here, you can help me get the Maypole. And then I'll make us a nice cup of cocoa and toast some crumpets. I must say,' she added, 'that I shall be glad of the company. Everyone at the Manor is out this evening. Mrs Pumphrey has gone on some wild hen chase to look for the Last No L, and Lord only knows where Mrs Bennett, Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Poo have got to.'

'P'raps they'll turn up later in the story,' said Turtle Dave. 

'And the really odd thing is that all their dressing gowns are missing,' said Mrs Miggins. 'And most of my tea-towels, too.'

'Then it is my bet,' said Colin Bird, 'that the three ladies will DEFINITELY be appearing at some point in the very near future. Probably with some sheep.'

The Maypole was retrieved and soon Mrs Miggins, Turtle Dave and Colin Bird were sitting in the kitchen having supper and reminiscing over old times. Mrs Miggins was glad they had come to visit, even though they were looking a bit bruised and battered, and they were glad they had visited, too, because they were fond of Mrs Miggins and besides, they were hoping to wangle an invitation to stay to Christmas.

Across the other side of the world, however, things were not so silent in the night...

The Sixth Day of Advent - Five Go On A Sleigh Ride and a Little Interactive Competition

Santa gathered up his reindeer and reattached them to the sleigh whilst Mrs Pumphrey, Tango Pete and Harold Angel gathered their bits and pieces from the tandem and the motorbike. 

'Are we all ready?' called Santa, as he fastened Rudolph to the front harness and tweaked his nose so it lit up like an enormous red beacon. 

'Yes, Santa!' said Mrs Pumphrey with somewhat breathy excitement. Tango Pete felt a pang of jealousy twang his heart. Santa was major competition to have in matters of Love. Look at that beard, for example. You could lose a gross of sausage rolls in that beard. He climbed aboard the sleigh and took a seat next to Mrs Pumphrey, tucking a furry tartan blanket snugly around her knees.

'Do you think there might be a marriage in this story?' says Daisy.

'You never know,' says Primrose. 'I suppose it depends on how the story arc develops.'

'Noah is going to be in on this as well?' says Daisy. 'And all his animals, two by two?'

'A story arc,' says Primrose, 'is where the writer develops the plot of what is going to happen.'

'You mean, even Denise doesn't know how this is all going to end yet?' says Daisy.

'Not a clue,' says Primrose. 'Can't you see the glassy-eyed confusion on her face?'

'I thought that was just the gin,' says Daisy. 

'She doesn't drink alcohol,' says Primrose. 'She manages that look without the aid of any intoxication whatsoever.'

'Impressive,' says Daisy.

The sleigh was just about ready for take-off when there came a raucous shouting from The Ding Dong Cafe, and Merrily Onhigh came flapping across the car park in all her goosey glory.

'Can I come, too?' she shouted, launching herself at the side of the sleigh with such force that Mrs Pumphrey was certain it would tip over.

'One more passenger makes no difference to me,' said Santa, taking up the reins and shaking them out. The jingle bells jingled and the reindeer pricked up their ears in anticipation of a launch into the deep blue night sky. 'In fact, the more the merrier!'

'What do you think, Gloria?' said Tango Pete. 'Can this adventure handle another character?'

'Of course!' said Mrs Pumphrey, who, to be honest, was glad of the opportunity to have some female company. 'Hop aboard, Merrily! Hop aboard!'

And so, with everyone safely tucked in and Santa at the helm, the sleigh shot up, up, up into the sky. Calling on his reindeer by name by way of encouragement, Santa's voice carried through the night air as clearly and crisply as a double fried chunky chip. Except for maybe the clear bit. But it was very crisp. (And for  our transatlantic guests, by 'chip' I mean an oblong of fried potato a la 'fish 'n' chips' and not potato chips which we, en Angleterre, call crisps which come in a variety of flavours e.g salt 'n' vinegar, cheese 'n' onion, coconut 'n' anchovy.)

'Hang on a minute,' said Tango Pete, listening to the names of the reindeer. 'That's not the names of the reindeer.'

'I think I ought to know what my reindeer are called,' said Santa, kicking off his boots and pulling on some comfy slippers in the shape of enormous bunny rabbits.

'But in the poem, 'The Night Before Christmas,' they are called Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen,' said Tango Pete.

Santa laughed. 'And do you believe everything you read in fiction?' he said.

'No, of course not!' said Tango Pete, blushing a little because he did not like to admit that once he had visited London with the specific purpose of going to 221B, Baker Street to find Sherlock Holmes. And when he had arrived at Baker Street all he found was a man named Bob playing a saxophone.

'Well, my reindeer, as you have now discovered, are called totally different names,' said Santa. 'Lebkuchen, anyone?'

(Cue Daisy Hen appearing stage right dressed in a sparkly leotard and enormous diamanté headdress.)

'Competition Time!' says Daisy.

'Tell everyone the competition with the prize of a lifetime!' says Primrose.

'I shall!' says Daisy. And she takes a small trumpet from her leotard pocket and blows a little fanfare. 'This amazing competition is open to residents of Much Malarkey Manor. What do YOU think are the real names of Santa's reindeer? The most original response in our comments box will win...'

'Wait for it, wait for it,' says Primrose, in an attempt to build up a bit of Christmas tension.

'...an Advent Story Post starring themselves, where we shall come and visit you and bring a spot of Christmas cheer!'

'So come on, folks,' says Primrose. 'Get your suggestions in before the end of the weekend and you could star in a mini-storyette of your very own!'

'I can feel the excitement from here,' says Daisy.

'Me, too,' says Primrose. 'It's either that, or wind.'

The sleigh flew higher and higher, so high in fact that Harold Angel feared he might get an altitude-related nose bleed. But he was distracted by Santa's Lebkuchen, and Mrs Pumphrey and Merrily singing Christmas songs and Tango Pete doing a very clever party trick with a walnut and a Pom Pom hat.

And so they travelled on into the night...

The Fifth Day of Advent - In Which Intrepid Explorers Discover That Time Travel Isn't Real, You Know

The convoy - if a red tandem plus two hens and a Triumph Herald motorbike plus a quail called Harold Angel counts as a convoy - set off into the night. Tango Pete was rather worried that Harold should not, in his current state of inebriation, be in charge of 250cc of throbbing engine power, but Harold assured him that it was fine, he'd done it many times before and only been caught by the police 17 times. Plus, they could stop off at an all-night greasy spoon and have a fry up which would absorb the worst of the damage. 

'What's a 'greasy spoon?' says Daisy, if not only for her benefit, but for the benefit of the continental guests at Much Malarkey Manor who may be confused by our funny English turns of phrase.

'It is what happens when washing up gets left in old washing up water overnight and a state of revolting congealment occurs,' says Primrose, for the benefit of MMM inhabitants who do this much to the annoyance of the Lady of the Manor who likes a DRY washing up bowl when the lights go off for nighty- night time.

'Oh,' says Daisy. 'I thought it was a cheap and cheerful cafe that sold cheap and cheerful fried food to long-distance lorry drivers, because that's exactly the kind of healthy fodder that someone who sits on their backside all day needs.'

'That, too,' says Primrose.

And so the convoy, after travelling not very far at all because there is a bit of a speed discrepancy between a tandem and a motorbike, pulled off at The Ding Dong Cafe run by one Merrrily Onhigh, a goose of not insubstantial proportions and a honking great voice to match.

The cafe was relatively quiet. Mrs Pumphrey disappeared into the Ladies' Room to powder her beak, and Tango Pete and Harold ordered three Crop Buster All-Night Breakfasts. 

'I am a bit concerned,' said Tango Pete, leaning in towards Harold in a conspiratorial sort of way, then leaning back again, driven away by the fumes emanating from him. 

'I've told you,' said Harold. 'Fear not. Do not be seized by mighty dread. Let you mind be untroubled. Once I get this breakfast inside me I shall be right as rain.'

'Not about you,' said Tango Pete. 'About Mrs Pumphrey. I've told her the tandem can time-travel. But it can't and...'

'Well, that was a bit stupid, wasn't it?' interrupted Merrily Onhigh. She slapped three enormous grease-laden breakfasts on the table. 'Why did you do that, you moron?'

'Not that it's any of your business,' said Tango Pete, 'but I wanted to impress her.'

Merrily rolled her eyes in a way that suggested that whilst a moment ago she only thought he was a moron, now she knew he definitely was.

'There are better ways to impress a lady than telling her you can time travel,' she said. 'Budge up, will you?' and she used her enormous goose behind to nudge Harold along with such force that he ricocheted off the other end of the fake leatherette banquette and landed in a heap of quail confusion on the floor.

'Like what?' said Tango Pete.

'Well,' said Merrily, 'what are you trying to achieve for a start?'

'We're on a quest to find the Last No L,' said Tango Pete.

Merrily laughed. 'That old chestnut?' she said. 'You know it's all a myth, don't you?'

'What's a myth?' says Daisy.

'A female moth,' says Primrose. 'Sssshhhhh!'

'It most certainly is not!' said Harold, scrabbling back a-top the banquette. 'It is as real as...as...that red-nosed reindeer leading a troupe of eight other reindeer in front of that massive sleigh parked in the car park there!' And he pointed into the darkness with his little quail wing.

'Oh shut up, Harold,' said Tango Pete with uncharacteristic sharpness.

'No, honest!' said Harold. 'Look!'

And at that very minute, there came a scream from the Ladies' Room. The scream of a startled hen.

'Mrs Pumphrey!' shouted Tango Pete. 'Gloria!' 

He leapt from the table, scattering rashers of bacon and sautéed mushrooms hither and thither. He ran towards the Ladies' Room. And just he reached the door, it swung open with such violence that it knocked him unconscious. And Mrs Pumphrey appeared a-screaming and a-flapping and in hot pursuit of our intrepid heroine came a portly gentleman, bearded of face and red of suit, and Merrily Onhigh leapt from the banquette in an act of sisterly solidarity and with one swoop of her enormous goosey wing, knocked him out cold, too.

'I think you just killed Santa,' said Harold.

Well, it was all crazy stuff indeed. On seeing their leader being right-hooked by a goose, the nine reindeer charged at the huge glass window of The Ding Dong Cafe, breaking it down with the ease of a sledgehammer shattering a very delicate bone-china cup. Merrily Onhigh shouted something not very lady-like at all, but which amounted to 'Oh dear! My poor cafe!' Mrs Pumphrey was waving her headscarf over Tango Pete in an effort to revive him and Harold was frisking Santa in case he was carrying some useful medical equipment like an epi-pen, smelling salts or hip-flask full of medicinal brandy.

Suddenly, someone shouted 'STOPPPP!' and amazingly, everyone did! 

'Who shouted 'STOP?' says Primrose.

'Our Advent Story Teller, I believe,' says Daisy.

'Yes,' says I.

'Why?' say Primrose and Daisy in unison.

'It's the power of omniscience,' says I. 'And I was losing control of the plot.'

Five minutes later, and both Tango Pete and Santa had regained consciousness and were drinking hot sugared tea, and the reindeer were helping Merrily sweep up the debris of glass. 

'I am so sorry for scaring you,' said Santa to Mrs Pumphrey. 'I was a bit desperate for a well, you know what, and I didn't read the sign on the door properly.'

'It was the looming of your enormous beard in the mirror that did it,' sad Mrs Pumphrey. 'It was like a giant badger hoving into view. But apology accepted. After all,' she added, blushing a little, 'it's rather a privilege to meet you.'

'But I must do something to make up for scaring you,' said Santa.

Mrs Pumphrey glanced into the car park at the enormous sleigh.

'I don't suppose we could hitch a ride, could we?' she said. 'You are, after all, the greatest Time Traveller of all.'

'What?' said Tango Pete. 'Even greater than The Doctor?'

Mrs Pumphrey looked at him quizzically. 'Doctor Who?' said she.

The Fourth Day of Advent - Something Dark, Damp and Seedy and It's Not a Pomegranate.

'Where are we going?' shouted Mrs Pumphrey from her seat on the back of the tandem. Tango Pete was up the front, pedalling like a crazy thing and Mrs Pumphrey was clinging hard to her handlebars. They sped away from Mrs Bennett's Bean and Gong Emporium, a couple of mince pies wrapped in a paper napkin for emergencies. Mrs Pumphrey gritted her teeth and closed her eyes as they travelled. She wasn't really built for tandem travel, lacking somewhat in the aerodynamic department as she did. Also, she did not like being kept in the dark about where they were heading. 

'We're going to see an old friend of mine!' shouted Tango Pete over the sound of the whistling wind and Mrs Pumphrey's spasmodic screams as they hit the occasional speed bump or wheelie bin. 'Honestly, I can't think why I didn't think of him before. I am such a fool!'

They were soon on the outskirts of Titbury and heading into an area of the suburbs that Mrs Pumphrey knew to be a 'not very nice place, especially for genteel lady hens.' She had questioned Mrs Miggins on several occasions about what form this 'not niceness' took, but Mrs Miggins was very scant with the details, muttering vaguely about 'fur coats' and 'lack of suitable underwear' and someone called 'Boris Johnson.' 

The streets began to narrow and the lights grew few and far between. Mrs Pumphrey was torn between feelings of anxiety for their safety and more than just a frisson of excitement. Just as she was about to ask Tango Pete when they would arrive at their destination the tandem screeched to a halt and Mrs Pumphrey was sent flying base over apex, landing in a very undignified fashion in a wide doorway.

'My dear lady!' said Tango Pete, leaping from the tandem and helping Mrs Pumphrey to her feet. 'I am so sorry. It's been many years since I visited 'The Purple Petunia.' Its arrival rather took me by surprise.'

For that was the name of their destination. The facade of 'The Purple Petunia' looked as if it had once been grand and ornate, but now it was broken and shabby. Paintwork was peeling from the columns that stood guard at the main door. Plaster flaked from the once sturdy walls. 

'You've been here before?' said Mrs Pumphrey.

'I used to work here,' said Tango Pete. 'This grand old building was where I started my show biz career. Second trapeze artist and balloon modeller. I just hope he's still around.'

'Who?' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Who have we come to see?'

'Why, Harold Angel, of course,' said Tango Pete.

Mrs Pumphrey's beak fell open. 'THE Harold Angel?' she said, agog with amazement. 

'THE Harold Angel,' said Tango Pete. 'The One and Only Quail Tenor Extraordinaire.'

'I shall never forget his Nessun Dorma,' sighed Mrs Pumphrey, as she and Tango Pete made their way into the faded glamour of yesteryear that was 'The Purple Petunia.'

And as they moved further into the dingy depths of the old music hall building, they became aware of a  low and vibrant sound. The unmistakeable sound of a very small bird making a very big sound. Fuelled, it sounded, by several pints of Old Fossils Slightly Crumbly Best Ale.

'Hark!' said Tango Pete. 'That's Harold Angel singing! He's still got it!' 

Mrs Pumphrey wasn't so sure. As her eyes accustomed to the dim light and smokey atmosphere, she saw on the stage a feathered figure - short in stature and wide in girth - clinging onto a microphone stand and looking like if he let go he'd fall to the floor and never rise again.

They waited until Harold Angel had finished his performance, and clapped politely at the end along with the other members of the audience - all three of them. And they watched as Harold Angel took a bow and shuffled from the stage, his little quail tail feathers dragging along the floor behind him.

'Harold!' said Tango Pete, stepping towards his old friend. 'Harold Angel!'

The quail stopped and stared at Tango Pete. He squinted, then reached for the pocket of his waistcoat, fished out a dusty monocle and fixed to his right eye.

'Good Heavens Above!' he said. 'As I live and breathe and whistle through my nose at night time, if it isn't Tango Pete. How are you, old chap? How jolly well are you?'

He staggered forward and gripped Tango Pete's wing in about as manly an embrace as an inebriated quail can manage. 

'I am well,' said Tango Pete. 'And you look...er...very...quailish.'

'And to what do I owe this unexpected visitation of such delicious company?' said Harold, tipping Mrs Pumphrey a bit of a cheeky wink.

'This is Mrs Gloria Inexcelsis Deo Pumphrey,' said Tango Pete. 'And we need your help.'

'Charmed,' said Harold, bowing slightly and just about managing to not fall over. 'How can I be of assistance?'

Mrs Pumphrey cleared her throat. 'We are on a journey to find the Last No L,' she said. 

Well, she might just as well have said, 'We want you to carry this very enormous pair of skis through that very small revolving door,' for the reaction she got.

'The Last No L?' said Harold Angel. 'You are looking for The Last No L? You do realise the only way to find The Last No L is to travel on a tandem capable of going backwards in time and running the gauntlet of sheep and shepherds and stars and kings? It's a very, VERY dangerous business...'

'Fifty quid and a ploughman's at the Pig and Bucket?' said Tango Pete.

'Done!' said Harold Angel. 'Consider me your official guide for the ride. When do we leave?'

'NOW!' said Tango Pete and Mrs Pumphrey in unison.

The Third Day of Advent - A Sub-Standard Mince Pie Brings a Revelation

Mrs Bennett's Bean and Gong Emporium - Fine Refreshments For Discerning Hens - was situated just off the High Street in the town of Titbury in the country of Titbury von Streudelheim, within whose boundaries lay Much Malarkey Manor. The country of Titbury von Streudelheim was ruled by King Andy and Queen Matilda and when they were away on holiday, by their hapless son Nearly King Jimbo. If you haven't already done so, you can read all about the adventures of Nearly King Jimbo in the excellent and highly entertaining novelette 'Nearly King Jimbo' available from all good e-book stores and in paperback from Lulu. (Lulu being the on-line self-publishing outlet and not the wee red headed singer from Scotland.)

'Hark at her and her blatant self-publicising,' says Primrose.

'It is a good book though,' says Daisy. 'I'd thoroughly recommend it. Very absorbent.'

'Don't you mean 'absorbing'?' says Primrose.

'I know what I mean,' says Daisy.

The shop bell tinkled, announcing the arrival of Mrs Pumphrey and Tango Pete, and like all good shopkeepers, Mrs Bennett immediately appeared, as if from nowhere.

'Gloria!' she said, with all the joy and enthusiasm of greeting a long-lost friend for the first time in years and not merely the two hours that had passed since she had left the Manor for work that morning.  'Table for two, is it?'

'Please,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'For two and a map.'

Mrs Bennett installed Mrs Pumphrey and Tango Pete at a table by the window yet slightly in the corner. She had felt for a long time that Mrs P and Tango Pete made a lovely couple and was keen to assist in all matters romantic especially with it being Christmas and all. She was an old romantic, was Mrs Bennett; also, she had just spent a not insubstantial amount of money on a new hat and the promise of a wedding would help justify the cost. She slapped a bunch of mistletoe on the table for good measure. Just in case they needed a bit of prompting.

'There you go, my lovelies,' she said, handing them each a menu. 'May I recommend the Cinnamon, Cranberry and Orange Mince Pies?'

Tango Pete wrinkled his beak every so slightly. 'They sound delicious,' said he, 'but unfortunately cinnamon makes me sneeze.'

'Lucky I ran out of cinnamon this morning, then,' said Mrs Bennett. 'This batch are cinnamon free.' She looked expectantly at Mrs Pumphrey.

'Now you know full well what cranberries do to my you-know-whats,' said Mrs Pumphrey.

'I ran out of cranberries, too,' said Mrs Bennett. 'Your you-know-whats are safe with these mince pies.'

'In that case,' said Tango Pete, 'four of your best Cinnamon, Cranberry and Orange Mince Pies, with a pot of tea for two.'

'Lovely!' said Mrs Bennett and off she went to the kitchen. However, she had taken just three steps from the table when she stopped and turned back. 'I also ran out of oranges,' she said.

'So,' said Mrs Pumphrey, 'your Cinnamon, Cranberry and Orange Mince Pies are, essentially, plain mince pies?'

Mrs Bennett gave this question some serious thought. 'Yes,' she said. 'I suppose they are. Do you still want them? Only I made eight dozen this morning and I may have trouble shifting them by the end of the day.'

'Bring them on!' said Mrs Pumphrey, who was growing a bit 'baa humbug' with the whole mince pie debacle and had more pressing matters to deal with like finding the Last No L.

'Did you know,' said Primrose, 'that the mince pie represents the manger in which the Baby Jesus was placed after he was born?'

'His mother put him in a pastry case full of mincemeat and then covered him with more pastry?' says Daisy. 'That sounds like very irresponsible parenting to me.'

'It wasn't a real mince pie,' says Primrose. 'It's a symbol.'

'A cymbal?' says Daisy. 'Good grief! How was the Baby Jesus to sleep with a drum kit in the stable? What with that, and the cows a-lowing and the angels trumpeting...'

'You are getting your homophones confused,' says Primrose.

'There were phones, too?' says Daisy. 'It's a miracle the Baby Jesus was so placid. I'm very intolerant of noise myself and...'

'So am I!' snaps Primrose. 'Here. Have some gingerbread. It's VERY sticky. Beak-stoppingly sticky.'

The mince pies duly arrived along with an enormous pot of tea and more mistletoe. Tango Pete was rather perplexed to see the pies had each been garnished with half a Brussel sprout, but he was too much of a gentleman to comment. Instead, he placed the Brussel garnish to the side of his plate for it would be unwise to mix small brassicas with a lengthy ride on a tandem.

Mrs Pumphrey placed the lyrics of The First Nowell before Tango Pete. 'Where do we start?' she said.

'Well,' said Tango Pete, having first taken a nibble of mince pie, 'there appears to be an unusual marking in the script just there. That could be a clue.' And he pointed to a spot where the font did appear to look different to the rest.

Mrs Pumphrey examined the unusual marking. Was it some ancient symbol, some intricate piece of Latin script? 'I think it might be a raisin,' she said. She gave it a peck. 'Yes. Definitely a raisin.'

'Riiiiiiight,' said Tango Pete, in that tone of voice the male of the species use when they know they have got something wrong yet are desperately trying to sound like they knew what they were talking about all along. 'Tell you what,' he continued, 'read the first few lines to me, dear lady. If I close my eyes and listen to the sound of your voice, I may be inspired with an idea.' And he leaned far back in his chair and closed his eyes.

There ensued a 'THUMP!' and the sound of a bruise appearing on a male ego. To her credit, Mrs Pumphrey did not utter so much as a titter as she waited for her companion to pick himself up from the floor and right his chair.

'P'raps keep your eyes open,' she suggested. 'And all four chair legs on the floor.'

'We shall achieve nothing at this rate,' said Tango Pete, a tad huffily. 'Please just read the lines, my good lady.'

'I am not the one wasting time by falling off chairs,' said Mrs Pumphrey, a tad hotly.

'That is true,' said Tango Pete. 'But I am the one in possession of a time-travelling tandem.'

There was a bit of a silence. A ball of mistletoe whistled through the air from somewhere and landed with a 'PLOP!' in Mrs Pumphrey's tea.

'I was going to ask you about this time-travelling malarkey,' said Mrs Pumphrey, who was very forgiving of minor contretemps. 'How does it work, exactly?' 

Tango Pete tapped the side of his beak in a mysterious kind of way. 'Top secret, and nothing for you to worry your pretty little lady hen head about,' he said. 'Continue with your reading.'

Mrs Pumphrey cleared her throat. She didn't like to tell him he had just deposited a huge blob of pastry on his beak. 'The First No L, the angels did say...' she began.

'STOP!!' shouted Tango Pete. 'There! We need to find these angels. The ones that did this saying.'

'What saying?' said Mrs Pumphrey.

'I don't know,' said Tango Pete. 'But I bet they know about the First No L.'

'Where does one find angels?' said Mrs Pumphrey. She knew where to find angles but angels...well, they were a whole different kettle of cosmic experiences.

Tango Pete frowned for a moment, deep in thought. And then the bright light of an amazing idea spread across his face.

'I have an amazing idea,' said he. 

The Second Day of Advent - A Hen on an Adventure With a Cock on a Bike

And so it was that the following morning Mrs Miggins discovered Mrs Pumphrey standing in the Great Hall of Much Malarkey Manor lacing up her enormous walking boots and toggling up her duffle coat. An overly-stuffed rucksack leant precariously  against the umbrella stand.

'Going somewhere?' said Mrs Miggins.

Mrs Pumphrey straightened her back. 'Yes,' she said, a steely glint of determination in her eye which was unusual for her as generally she was a fluffy bunny kind of hen. 'I am going in search of the last Christmas with an L.'

'Is that so?' said Mrs Miggins. 'And where, pray tell, do you intend on starting this search?'

Ruffling around in the top of her rucksack, Mrs Pumphrey produced a crumpled piece of paper. 'I have a map,' she said. 'Well, more a set of written clues.' She handed the crumpled paper to Mrs Miggins.

Mrs Miggins studied the crumpled paper. 'It's the lyrics to 'The First Nowell,' she said.

'Yes,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'For it is my belief that if I can find the Christmas with the First No L then it is a mere step back in time one year to find the one that did have an L.'

It is too early in the morning for such abstract ramblings, thought Mrs Miggins, but because she was fond of Mrs Pumphrey, she did not say so. 'You're planning to go back in time, then?' she said instead, as though it was the least ludicrous idea in the world.

'Indeedy do,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'My transport will be here approximately...' and she glanced at her watch, 'half an hour ago.'

And at that precise moment there came from outside a strange noise. A noise that sounded like, 'diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum, diddly dum...oooo....woooooo.....oooooooooo,' followed by a 'THUMP!' as something large and heavy and possibly shaped like an old-fashioned Police Box landed on the path outside.

A sharp rap of the knocker ensued, and Mrs Pumphrey flung open the door to reveal Tango Pete - Ladies' Cock, Mans' Cock, Cock About Town - standing on the Welcome mat, legs akimbo and NOT because he was wearing enormous trousers with pockets full of pine cones.

'What is THAT???' said Mrs Miggins, pointing at the contraption between Tango Pete's legs.

Tango Pete looked down. 'Magnificent, isn't it?' he said. 'Purchased from a mystic badger in the back streets of Croydon,'

And before we become awash with more tenuous innuendo, which, let's face it, might be worthy of the pantomime element of the season but not of its true meaning, I should point out that the ladies of the Manor were admiring Tango Pete's marvellous, shiny red tandem bicycle.

'Well,' says Daisy, 'I've heard of a pantomime cow, but never a pantomime elephant.'

'How times have changed,' sighs Primrose. 

'I said 'element' not 'elephant', says I. 'Really you two, if you keep interrupting we shan't get this story finished until, oooh, Christmas Eve at least.'

'Do continue,' says Daisy...

'I have to say,' said Mrs Miggins, 'that with all the noise you made on your arrival I was expecting something, well, a little more science-fictiony than a tandem bicycle.'

'You are not the first to mention this,' said Tango Pete. 'Can't think why. Anyway,' he continued, turning his attention to Mrs Pumphrey, 'are you ready for our grand adventure, dear lady?'

'I should say so,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'I have packed but the bare essentials. I thought we could stop off on the way and buy things as we need them.'

'Splendid idea!' said Tango Pete. 'I always say if you've a toothbrush, a ball of string and a packet of humbugs you can travel anywhere.'

'And a credit card,' said Mrs Pumphrey, waving her purse in the air. 

'Of course!' said Tango Pete.'Now, shall we repare to the kitchen for some pre-travel tea and cake and plan-making?'

'No,' said Mrs Miggins. 'I am just about to begin my pre-Christmas deep steam clean. The kitchen is out of bounds. If you want to repare anywhere, you can go to Mrs Bennett's Bean and Gong Emporium - Fine Refreshments for the Discerning Hen. I am sure she would be welcome of your custom.' And with that, she pushed Mrs Pumphrey through the front door, flinging her rucksack after her. The door slammed in a determined sort of way.

'Does she always use the kitchen for her pre-Christmas deep steam clean?' said Tango Pete, hoisting Mrs Pumphrey onto the back seat of the tandem and cramming her rucksack as best he could into a pannier built only for the portage of a small cottage loaf and a chihuahua.

'Always,' sighed Mrs Pumphrey. 'I've told her she should really use the bathroom like the rest of us do, but she won't listen.'

And so Mrs Pumphrey and Tango Pete set off on their journey to find the Last No L. Tango Pete did most of the peddling. Mrs Pumphrey coasted along behind, knitting stockings.

The Beginning of Advent - In Which a Confused Hen Has an Odd Thought

Before I begin this telling of one of the truer stories of Christmas, I should point out to those of you of a nervous disposition that it is a story first recounted to me several years ago by one Mrs Laetitia Miggins, late hen of this parish, who has since departed this world for a better place, along with her constant and sometimes fond companions - Mrs Patience Bennett, Mrs Betty Slocombe, Mrs Gloria Pumphrey and Mrs Poo. Be not alarmed, then, that this is a tale from ghostly voices - there is nothing to fear. Consequently, there is NO excuse for making unnecessary and extravagant leaps of startlement at ANY point during this storytelling, so kindly sit still and listen...

'What kind of a name is Mrs Poo?' says Primrose, settling into her beanbag by the wood-burning stove, a mug of cocoa in one wing, a gingerbread aardvark in the other.

'It's a perfectly fine name for a hen,' says Daisy, who is already ensconced on the sofa, wrapped snugly in a wool blanket of the tartan McNoggin, for the night was already drawn in and it was more than a tad chilly around the Gorbals.

'You sniggered,' says Primrose.

'So did you,' says Daisy. 'In fact, you sniggered first and...'

'Hush, the both of you,' says I, casting a warning stare across the top of my glasses. 'Mrs Poo was a marvellous hen. A bit grumpy, maybe, and rather too fond of the taste of kneecap skin, but she did her egg-laying duty and kept the foxes at bay with her uncanny impersonation of an alpaca singing to the moon. Her full name was Mrs Polovitska. Mrs Poo for short.'

'And did Mrs Poo have a first name?' says Daisy.

'Stalin,' says I. 'Laugh at your peril.'

And so, with facts laid before us, we begin...

(Cue wibbly wobbly 'back to the past' hazy mist in the air.)

'How do you spell Christmas?' said Mrs Pumphrey. She had decided to craft her own Christmas cards this year and was sitting at the kitchen table at Much Malarkey Manor, her feathers covered with a goodly scattering of sequins and glitter. She was chewing thoughtfully on her best metallic silver writing pen. A tiny pom-pom robin was perched jauntily on her head.

'C...H...R...I...S...T...M...A...S,' said Mrs Miggins. It was the first day of December (co-incidentally, haha!), and liking to always be well prepared, she was standing at the Welsh dresser counting miniature chocolate eggs into pastel lilac baskets, ready for the Easter Bunny. (And in case you were wondering, Christmas was already organised and stacked in a cupboard ready to crack open on Christmas Eve.)

'Isn't there an 'L' in there somewhere?' said Mrs Pumphrey, frowning.

'No,' said Mrs Miggins. She paused in her egg counting. 'Why on earth would there be an 'L' in Christmas?'

'Because of the song,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'By Carol. You know - 'The First No L.' '

Mrs Miggins eyed her friend suspiciously. 'Have you been sniffing craft glue?' said she.

'Absolutely not!' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Nor have I been taking crafty sips at the Christmas sherry. I was just wondering.'

'That's okay then,' said Mrs Miggins, for the last thing she needed at this busy time of year was a hen running amok, high on Copydex. And so she continued filling the Easter baskets with Easter eggs, and Mrs Pumphrey continued crafting her Christmas cards, and a companionable stillness fell upon Much Malarkey Manor.

Yet as the day progressed, Mrs Pumphrey found she could not remove the thought of the First No L from her head, which was unusual because so short was her attention span generally, that ideas rarely remained in her head for more than a second or...oooh, look! A squirrel!

('Will you please pay attention, Mrs P?' begged the recounter of this tale, also known as me. 'Sorry,' said Mrs Pumphrey, 'but there was a squirrel. Honest!')

Mrs Pumphrey continued to ponder. Surely Christmas must have contained an 'L' at some point, or why else would Carol have felt the need to write a song about the very first time that it didn't - The First No L? And who was Carol anyway? These were vexing thoughts, perplexing thoughts, thoughts that needed exploring, and preferably sooner rather than later, before they made her head explode.

'I know who can help me,' she said, to no-one in particular but herself and certainly not Mrs Miggins who was now plugged into her i-pod and was bopping around the kitchen to the sounds of Barry Manilow at the London Palladium 1973. 

And she went into the hallway, picked up the telephone and made a call.