Guilty Conscience Sprinkled With Glitter

 

On the eleventh day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...two snarky-looking geese. With a sprig of holly. I wouldn't go near them if I was you. Let's indulge in some nice, safe glittery magic instead...

....Mrs Miggins is feeling unsettled, and not because she’s just discovered she is sitting on a pair of nutcrackers. They’ve been driving for about an hour, now, and she’s made Mrs Poo pull over just to check they haven’t found themselves back in Olden Glish. But all is well. They are, indeed, on their way home to Much Malarkey Manor.

‘Does anyone else feel uncomfortable about the fact we’ve just left Kenneth the Phantomime behind and in the company of three French hens and two turtle doves who we know pretty much nothing about?’ says Mrs Miggins.

‘No,’ says Mrs Poo.

‘Sort of,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.

‘Yes,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I feel we’ve abandoned him whilst he is a highly volatile and emotional state of mind.’

‘The French hens seemed very nice,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Madame Bovary, Madame Tussaud and Madame Cholet.’

‘What a re-assuring combination,’ says Mrs Miggins. She doesn’t know why she is feeling a sense of impending doom. She wishes she isn’t but she is, and she also knows that in order to assuage those feelings, they need to turn the motorhome around and find Kenneth. She says as much to the other lady hens.

‘…and I know Kenneth is possible the most annoying person on the planet,’ she finishes, ‘BUT he is OUR Phantomime, and we owe him a duty of care. I think,’ she adds, still trying to convince herself.

The other hens ‘ummm’ and ‘aaah’ for a bit. There is a considerable amount of weighing up the consequences of the situation. Tea and biscuits become involved.

‘Let’s have a vote,’ suggests Mrs Slocombe. ‘Those in favour of going straight home and forgetting Kenneth ever existed, raise your wings.’

Mrs Poo and Mrs Pumphrey raise their wings.

‘And those in favour of going back to find him?’ says Mrs Slocombe, because maths has never been her strong point. She raises her own wing, as does Mrs Miggins.

‘Stalemate,’ says Miggins.

‘Well, as the driver, I have the casting say,’ says Mrs Poo, ‘and I…’

‘But I have the keys,’ says Mrs Miggins, and she jangles the motorhome key fob in front of Mrs Poo.

‘Ha!’ says Mrs Poo. ‘But I have the spare, here in my pocket,’ and she pats the pocket of her driving gilet.

‘Wrong,’ says Mrs Miggins, holding up the spare set of keys. ‘I have those, too. Now look,’ she carries on hurriedly before Mrs Poo bursts into a fit of apoplexy, ‘we’ve only driven an hour. Kenneth won’t have got too far away. I bet you within three hours we’ll have found him and be on our way home again.’

‘Very well,’ says Mrs Poo, but she is still sounding testy. ‘But on your head be it. And there had better be an extra special Christmas present under the tree for me this year.’

Mrs Miggins throws her both sets of keys. ‘Let’s go, then,’ she says. ‘It’s the right thing to do.

The hens make their way back to Olden Glish but decide to not park at ‘The Rutting Deer’ pub, just in case Mrs Glossop notices their return. Instead, Mrs Poo wheels the motorhome into the car park of the village hall.

‘What next?’ she says, turning to face Mrs Miggins. ‘Where do we begin? He could have gone off in any direction. And I know they are travelling in a Fiat 500 so they won’t be that far away but…’

‘Glitter,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, suddenly sitting up.

The other hens look at her.

‘We just need to follow the trail of glitter,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘It’s that new cloak of Kenneth’s. Look,’ and she points to the carpet of the motorhome. And she’s right – it is scattered with glitter.

‘When we were travelling between ‘The Pear Tree’ and here,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘I was chatting to Kenneth about his new cloak. I said there seemed to be a lot of glitter shedding going on, and he said, yes, he knew and as soon as he got home, he was going dig out the receipt and send the cloak back for a refund. He said that he’d never had a cloak shed like this one…’

But Mrs Miggins is already out of the motorhome and examining the road that runs by the village hall. ‘I don’t see how a cloak could shed enough glitter to leave a trail for us to follow,’ she says.

Mrs Pumphrey appears by her side. ‘The glitter isn’t on the cloak,’ she says. ‘It’s inside. It’s the stuff that gives the cloak weight and volume, which, in turn, makes it swish properly. When you are a theatrical professional, like Kenneth the Phantomime, it’s the kind of cloak you always wear. It’s a statement piece, and it leaves a little bit of glitter everywhere it goes to remind people…’

‘…just what a star he is?’ finishes Mrs Miggins.

‘You’ve got it,’ smiles Mrs Pumphrey.

‘I hate to be the glitter-cynic fairy,’ says Mrs Poo, ‘but he won’t leave much of a trail if he’s travelling in a car, will he?’

‘Aah,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘but he always sits by an open window, so the glitter can waft out.’

‘It is STILL going to be a botheration to follow,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Glitter is tiny. And the day is getting on. It will be dark soon. There’s no way we’ll be able to follow a glitter trail in those conditions.’

‘Aah,’ says Mrs Pumphrey again. ‘What we need is one of these.’ And she rummages around in her handbag, pulling out a small, square lantern.

‘And this is?’ says Mrs Poo, hardly daring to ask.

‘A glitter detection lantern!’ says Mrs Pumphrey.

‘Of course it is,’ sighs Mrs Poo.

‘We just strap it to the front of the motorhome and it will light up the path of the glitter,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.  

‘You see!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘There is a solution to every problem. We’ll return to the edge of the village where we met the turtle doves, and see if we can detect a trail.’ 

‘Cup of tea, anyone?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I feel quite overwhelmed by the extraordinary turn of events this journey is taking.’

And so would be the Lady Author if she wasn’t still on her retreat, thank goodness.