Coincidence, Or Fate, Or a Cunning Plot Point?

On the fourteenth day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...another squirrel. At least they are red squirrels. I haven't mentioned the word 'squirrel' to Nell the Poo. I don't have the energy today to deal with the hysterical fall-out. Talking of which...

...'Entry denied,’ says the chief colley bird, back at the gate.

‘What if I try a different combination?’ says Mrs Poo. She starts ringing the five gold bells in a variety of tunes, singing along and becoming more wild eyes and frantic with each effort.

‘SI-EL-ENT NI-GHT! DING DONG ME-RRI-LY! FROST-Y WINDS MAY MOAN!!! FROST-EE THE SNOW MAN!!! RU-DOLPH THE RED NOSE…oh, that doesn’t work…’

The colley bird is beginning to look mightily annoyed. He knows for a fact that his hot chocolate has likely developed a skin and now he’ll have the faff of making another one.

‘ENOUGH!’ he yells loudly in an attempt to out-shout Mrs Poo. ‘You are denied entry. Go away all of you, or I shall call for reinforcements.’

Mrs Slocombe places a wing on the puffing Mrs Poo’s shoulders. ‘Perhaps we should step back a while and have a think,’ she says, ever practical.

Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey nod in agreement. Clearly, they are getting nowhere with the bells or the colley birds. Withdrawal to a discrete distance in order to regroup would be most sensible. They bid farewell to the colley birds and return to the motorhome.

‘Now what?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘The glitter clearly shows Kenneth has gained entry through the gates…’

‘Does it though?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘What if he got turned back, too? What if he and the turtle doves had exactly the same problem we’ve had?’

Mrs Miggins is, of course, very wise and intuitive about these things. And, in this case, spot on. Barely two hours earlier, that was exactly what had happened. Kenneth and the two turtle doves decided to take an amble further along the road, leaving a note on the Fiat 500 for the three French hens to wait for them to return. And it wasn’t long before they arrived at those very same gates with those very same dogmatic colley birds keeping guard from their sentry boxes. They were offered the opportunity to ring the five gold bells but, like the hens, they failed to identify the correct order that would gain them access. The Phantomime was especially disappointed, given the depth of his operatic experience.

‘Don’t worry, Kenneth,’ says Enrico, patting his arm as they turn and walk away from the seemingly impenetrable gates. ‘We’ll gain entry one way or another. And look,’ he says, as they round the corner in the road and spot the Fiat 500 ahead of them, ‘the French hens have arrived.’

With everyone in our wild and bewildering story wanting to gain entry through the mysterious gates and them all being prevented from doing so, Time slows down and sits patiently whilst everyone catches up with themselves. Unbeknown to them all, they have gravitated to the same small woodland, away from the road and beautifully convenient for parking a large motorhome and a small Fiat 500. The hens are parked to the East of the woods, and Kenneth, the two turtle doves and the three French hens to the West. Happy that everyone is now where they should be, Time stands up stretches her legs. She walks to a tree on the East side of the woods and pastes a poster to a tree. She wanders through the woods and pastes an identical poster to a tree on the West side. Rubbing her hands together, she smiles with satisfaction and looks at her pocket watch.

‘Time to move this story on,’ she says, pressing a button on the watch…

…Mrs Miggins is wandering around the edge of the woodlands giving careful thought to what they should do next. She glances up and sees a poster stuck to a tree. She reads it. ‘Hmmm,’ she says, ‘how interesting.’ She pulls the poster from the tree and heads back to the motorhome.

…Kenneth is wandering around the edge of the woodlands giving careful thought to what they should do next. He glances up and sees a poster stuck to a tree. He reads it. ‘Hmmm,’ he says, ‘how interesting.’ He pulls the poster from the tree and heads back to the Fiat 500.

(At this point in the proceedings, I should like to say that if anyone from Fiat is reading this, I am more than happy to be gifted a Fiat 500 in lieu of all the advertising they are getting. Ditto a motorhome. Just saying.)

‘Look at this!’ says Mrs Miggins, waving the poster at the other hens. ‘Apparently, someone called the Dauphin Dolphin is having a Christmas festival in order to celebrate not only Christmas but how great and marvellous he is.’

‘Who’s the Dauphin Dolphin?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.

‘Well, I’m making a wild guess here,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘but might he possibly be the Lord General Porpoise? I reckon if I was escaping a scandal of his magnitude I would want to change my name. And we know from the glitter trail that the turtle doves are looking for the Lord General Porpoise behind those gates.’

‘Do you think?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.

‘I do,’ says Mrs Miggins.

‘But how does this help us?’ says Mrs Slocombe.

‘Read the poster,’ says Mrs Miggins, smoothing it out on the table between them.

Mrs Slocombe balances an elegant pair of pince nez on the end of her beak. ‘Grand Christmas Celebration Festival in Honour of His Grace the Most Highly Esteemed Dauphin Dolphin,’ she reads. Entertainers of the Highest Quality are Invited to Attend to Showcase Their Talents…’

And then, in smaller print, ‘Auditions to be held on the 19^th December. Tea and a variety of cheese-based snacks provided for successful auditionees.’

There followed instructions to present oneself at the gates of the Five Gold Bells at 10 a.m sharp on the day of auditions.

‘What do you think, ladies?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Shall we present ourselves for this audition?’

‘Good job I thought to pack my can-can skirt,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.