Ding Dong Ding Dong Ding!

 

On the twelfth day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...another rabbit with more mistletoe. Maybe it would be wise to keep all these romantic rabbits apart or we could be overrun with them by Christmas. Meanwhile, Mrs Pumphrey is waxing lyrical about all things glitter... 

...‘Everyone should have a glitter detection lamp,’ sighs Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I’m sure that the world would be a happier place if people could see how much glitter there is around.’

And can I say, dear Reader (s), before anyone comments on the environmental impact caused by the usual type of glitter, that the sort of glitter we are dealing with here is magickal, ethereal and wholly biodegradable. It is the sort of glitter that the wonderful people of this world leave behind when they touch the lives of others by their kind words and deeds, by the joy and peace they spread and often by their mere presence. It is the sign of the Earth angels who walk amongst us. Of course, Kenneth the Phantomime can hardly be described as an Earth angel BUT the cloaks he buys were angel cloaks once upon a time, and their glittery magickal properties never die. Let’s not think about the shallow and narcissistic reasons he has for buying these magickal cloaks, because it IS Christmas, after all.

Anyway, back to the plot…

…it does not take long for the glitter detention lamp to start doing its job.

‘Look!’ says Mrs Slocombe, pointing at the road ahead. ‘I can see something sparkly!’

She is right, of course. There, on the tarmac in front of the motorhome, is a subdued but very there luminescence, a persistent sparkling, like the starry glittering of frost on a sharp and clear Winter’s night. It looks like someone has painted a trail using fairy dust.  

Mrs Poo drives the motorhome slowly at first until her eyes become used to picking up the trail of glitter ahead of her but as her confidence grows, so she picks up speed. Occasionally, when they reach a junction or a crossroad, they have to stop, get out and scan the glitter detection lantern around to see which direction to take. Mostly, though, their progress is unimpeded. Many miles extend between them and Olden Glish. The countryside around them broadens into vast hillsides and deep valleys. Huge rock formations loom out of the darkness like shadowy giants.

‘Where are we exactly?’ says Mrs Miggins.

Mrs Poo taps the satnav. ‘I have no idea,’ she says. ‘This thing stopped working a while back, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there have been no road signs for the last fifty miles, even though we’ve taken several junctions.’

‘We’re lost then?’ says Mrs Slocombe.

‘One is NEVER lost when following the path of glitter,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, confidently.

But as they travel onwards and the night seems to grow even darker, all the hens start to feel a bit uneasy, although none of them would say as much.

And then…

…’Look!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, sitting forward excitedly. ‘We’re coming to the end of the road.’

She is right. Ahead, the road turns slightly, and as it turns, it narrows and there, before them, is a huge set of gates set into a very thick and very tall granite wall.

The hens park up and descend from the motorhome.

‘I can’t actually see the top of the wall,’ says Mrs Slocombe, straining her neck upwards and back.

Mrs Poo unlatches the glitter detection lantern from the front of the motorhome and casts its light around. ‘Well, the glitter trail definitely ends here,’ she says. ‘But how do we get in?’

The gates, you see, have no handles. They have no locks, no latches, no knockers, no windows. The wood is thick and smooth and solid.  Mrs Miggins gives the gates an experimental push, and by ‘experimental push’ I mean she gives them a good shove. However, the gates are ungiving.

‘That won’t work,’ says a voice. ‘You need to ring the gold bells.’

To one side of the gates there are, the hens suddenly notice, two sentry boxes, like the ones that stand guard at palaces and castles. And there is a matching pair of sentry boxes on the other side, too. And from each of the four sentry boxes emerge, marching in time, a blackbird, making four in total.

Mrs Slocombe nudges Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Four colley birds,’ she says. ‘Like in the Christmas song.’

Mrs Pumphrey frowns. ‘Calling birds, surely?’ she says. ‘Four calling birds…’

‘No,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘It’s a common misconception. Colley birds was an old name for the common blackbird and…’

‘Oi!’ says one of the colley birds. ‘Less of the common, eh?’

‘My apologies,’ says a mortified Mrs Slocombe, who never wants to cause offence to anyone. ‘I was just explaining to my friend about the mix up between colley bird and calling bird in the well-known Christmas song and…’

‘Look,’ says the offended colley bird, ‘are you going to ring the gold bells, or what? I’ve just made a hot chocolate in my sentry box and I shall be very MIFFED if it goes cold because of your indecisive wittering.’

‘There’s no need for rudeness,’ says Mrs Miggins, stepping forward and poking the colley bird in the chest. ‘We didn’t know we had to ring any gold bells. Perhaps if you put a knocker or a handle on these gates, your job might be a bit easier.’

The colley bird stands as tall and straight as he can. ‘The Dauphin Dolphin would NEVER allow THAT,’ he says, imperiously. ‘His Grace is VERY security conscious. Anyone genuine appraoching these gates would know that you have to ring the five gold bells in order to enter therein.’

‘Five gold rings?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Seriously?’

The colley bird narrows his eyes. ‘Very serious,’ says he.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ says Mrs Poo. She steps forward. ‘Where are these gold bells, then?’

The colley bird points to a series of bell pulls in a recess in the gate. ‘There,’ he says.

Mrs Poo stands in front of them, and thinks. Then she reaches out, grabbing each bell pull in turn, and yells, ‘FIVE GO-OLD RING…S!’

The gates remain resolutely shut.