Goosey Goosey Gander?

On the fifteenth day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...a foxy fox! Standing worryingly close to the hare, rabbits and geese but its eyes are closed so as long as it's also got no sense of smell all should be well. The Phantomime, however, seems hellbent on walking into trouble...

...on the other side of the woodland, six geese have duly arrived at the turtle dove/French hen/ Phantomime camp, and are busy laying eggs.

‘As many as possible, please ladies,’ says Juan. ‘We can’t thank you enough for responding to our call for help.’

‘Oh, I think you can,’ says the leader of the six geese. ‘These eggs don’t come cheap, you know.’

‘But they do go cheep if they hatch,’ says one of the other geese. And the whole lot of them fall about laughing.

‘Do you know,’ says the Phantomime, ‘I’ve never considered that the six geese a-laying are actually female.’

The goose laughter stops abruptly. ‘Excuse me?’ says the lead goose.

‘Uh-oh,’ says Enrico, backing away.

‘Well, you know,’ says the Phantomime, ‘I just assumed that every participant in the song was the male of the species. I mean, the ladies in the song – the nine dancing ladies, the eight milk maids and the three French hens are all specifically defined by their sex, aren’t they – ladies, maids, hens? You know where you are with them, but the rest? Well, it’s easier and more rational to think of them as being male.’

‘Is it wise to become involved in a discussion on gender politics?’ whispers Juan. ‘Have you ever been involved in a goose attack?’

‘As it happens, no,’ says the Phantomime. ‘Why?’

‘I think you might be about to find out,’ says Juan.

‘Just a minute,’ says the lead goose, who happens to be called Boudicca, ‘what exactly do you think female geese are called. You know, as in the male chicken is a cockerel and the female is a hen?’

The Phantomime, still resisting the sense of imminent danger, ponders awhile. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I know the male goose is called a gander…’

‘Yes,’ says Boudicca, folding her wings across her bosom.

The Phantomime thinks again. He furrows his brow, so hard is he thinking. ‘Do you know,’ he says, ‘I have no idea. What is a female goose called?’

‘A goose,’ says Boudicca the Goose.

‘A goose?’ The Phantomime laughs. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. They can’t be just ‘goose.’ Surely it must be something pretty and feminine, like, oh, I don’t know – a frilly, maybe? Or a sweetling?’

‘He really doesn’t know when to shut up, does he?’ says Boudicca to Juan, who shrugs his shoulders and makes a gesture to suggest that the Phantomime is a bit simple and, therefore, exceptions should be made for his stupidity.

Boudicca the Goose thinks for a moment. She really can’t be bothered to organise her five sisters into full-on goose attack mode. There are other, less violent ways, of demonstrating one’s annoyance. It is Christmas, after all.

‘Mr Phantomime,’ she says, in a final attempt to make Kenneth see the error of his ways, ‘how would we be six geese a-laying if we weren’t lady geese? Ganders can’t lay eggs, can they? On account of them lacking the relevant equipment. The song line would then have been something like, ‘Six ganders a-not putting things back where they belong,’ or ‘Six ganders playing darts and spitting,’ for example.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ says Kenneth. ‘How peculiar that it turns out I have been wrong all these years. Ahahahahahahaha…ha!’

‘Of course, if we ARE male geese, or 'ganders' if you will, as you have assumed all these years,’ continues Boudicca the definitely lady goose, ‘then we can’t possible lay eggs any more. My sisters,’ she says, turning to address the other five lady geese, ‘stop laying eggs now, if you please. It appears we’ve been doing the song wrong all these years…’

The other geese honk in agreement. They rise from their nesting places and waddle off into the woodlands, shaking their tail feathers and fluffing out their wings.’

‘There!’ says Boudicca. ‘We are now in accordance with Kenneth the Phantomime’s archaic patriarchal assumptions. Frillies and sweetlings, indeed! Pah!’ And off she struts after her sisters.

‘Oh well, now see that you’ve done,’ says Madame Cholet, one of the three French hens. ‘I suppose we’ll have to take over now.’

‘I haven’t laid an egg for years,’ says Madame Bovary. ‘It isn’t becoming of my social status.’

‘I don’t think I could even if I tried,’ says Madame Tussaud.

Juan slaps his turtle dove forehead with his turtle dove wing. ‘You’re a bit of a liability,’ he says to Kenneth. ‘I am beginning to regret saying you could come with us on this venture.’

Kenneth looks crestfallen for all of two seconds. ‘I don’t possibly see how I am to blame for this,’ he says. Then his face brightens. ‘What about the seven swans a-swimming? Are they lady swans? How can we tell?’

‘I’m not even going to attempt to find out,’ says Juan. ‘Besides, they are too far way to be of help. They’re at some synchronised swimming competition in Finland. Current champions defending their title. It’s VERY important.’

‘Who knew?’ says Kenneth. ‘Swans doing synchronised swimming, eh? Must be lady swans, then.’

‘Sheesh,’ says Juan.

Meanwhile, back in less stereotypical surroundings across the far side of the woodlands, Mrs Pumphrey is choreographing a dance for the hens and Mrs Poo is tinkering under the bonnet of the motorhome because she’d rather stab herself with a screwdriver than learn side-together-side-together-skip-toe-heel-skip.

‘Can’t we do something other than dancing?’ she says, emerging from the bonnet, and wiping her brow with her wing. ‘Surely we can be more inventive than THAT?’

‘I am open to suggestions,’ says Mrs Miggins, who isn’t much of a fan of dancing herself, unless it’s around the kitchen table to ‘Don’t Stop Me Now,’ by Queen, with half a bottle of sherry inside her.

‘How about my magic trick routine?’ says Mrs Slocombe.

 Mrs Miggins bugs her eyes. She remembers last New Year’s Eve when Mrs Slocombe tried to produce a cactus from a fez. An ill-judged move from a usually very sensible and competent hen.

‘Perhaps we’ll stick to dancing,’ she says. ‘After all, we only want to gain entry through the gates. We aren’t planning on winning a part in the show itself, are we?’

‘Speak for yourself,’ says the highly focused and motivated all-singing and all-dancing Mrs Pumphrey.