Let's Groove!

 

On the seventeenth day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...a crescent moon. Or possibly a wedge of Edam, which just goes to prove that the moon IS made from cheese! Moving on from conspiracy theories then, we find Mrs Pumphrey well and truly in her dancing groove...

...‘The thing is,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘although the dance routine is very good – one of my best, in fact - it doesn’t quite have the theatrical impact we need in order to get through the auditions to perform in the festival itself.’

Mrs Miggins sighs and kicks off her tap shoes in order to rub her feet. ‘But we aren’t bothered about getting through the auditions,’ she says. ‘All we want is to get through those gates, find Kenneth, and drag him, probably kicking and screaming, back to Much Malarkey Manor in time for Christmas. Which is only a week away,’ she adds, looking at her Christmas Countdown app.

(Reader(s), it has genuinely just occurred to me that all the hens need to do is walk to the other side of the woodlands and they’ll find Kenneth easily without having to go through all this audition malarkey. Talk about not seeing the woodlands for the trees, eh? BUT I am not in charge of this story debacle this year, and besides, where would be the fun in them just finding him and taking him home? Also, the story would be a whole week short, and I know what an ENORMOUS disappointment that would be to you all…)

Mrs Pumphrey looks peevish. ‘Even so,’ she says, ‘I have standards to maintain. I need to know that we can put on a good show even if we don’t. What we need are more performers…’

And, what do you know, at that EXACT moment (because this is how things work when there is magick in the air and the story is beginning to run out of plot time for all that needs to be squeezed in) there comes the sound of laughter and chatter, and into the glade where the hens are rehearsing (woodland glades are a must in a magickal story, don’t you think?) come nine ladies, all dancing, some sort of gavotte, I think; it looks very jaunty and merry anyway. What a coincidence! Not.

Mrs Pumphrey seems unsurprised. ‘I knew something would come along,’ she says, excitedly, as she rushes over to greet the dancing ladies.

At least Mrs Poo will be spared the embarrassment of dancing, thinks Mrs Miggins. For everyone knows that it is very unlucky to have thirteen dancers in a Christmas performance. Nine ladies and three hens is quite enough.

Mrs Slocombe emerges from the motorhome, where she has been running up costumes on her sewing machine. Red sequin shorts and matching halter neck tops, since you ask. She takes one look at the arrival of the nine dancing ladies, sighs, and retreats to the motorhome, crossing her feathers that the sewing machine doesn’t overheat and she’s got enough replacement needles, because sewing sequins plays havoc with them.

Mrs Pumphrey dances over to Mrs Miggins followed by the nine dancing ladies.

‘Mrs Miggins,’ she says, ‘may I have the honour of introducing you to ‘The Quick Quick Slow Steps’. They are the original Steps. They were dancing before the other Steps even thought about ‘Five, Six, Seven, Eight.’ There’s nine, you see. One step beyond! Madness, eh??’

(Prizes for those who recognise that witty musical allusion!!)

‘Greetings,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Live long and prosper, and all that malarkey.’

‘You’ll never believe this,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.

‘Oh, I think I will,’ sighs Miggins.

‘…but these ladies are on their way to audition for the Dauphin Dolphin festival, too! How amazing is THAT??’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘And they are happy to include us hens in their performance. They say we’ll be the novelty element that will give them the edge!’

And then Mrs Pumphrey lowers her voice. ‘But they only want three of us. What with thirteen being an unlucky number in the formation dance fraternity.’ She leans in to Mrs Miggins and whispers, ‘Do you think Mrs Poo will be offended if we ask her to stand down? Maybe she could carry the costume boxes? She’d be good at that. She has both muscles and logistical skills.’

‘I think Mrs Poo will be quite delighted with that arrangement,’ says Mrs Miggins.

 Mrs Pumphrey claps her wings together excitedly.

‘Let’s get rehearsing!’ she says. ‘We are so going to win this thing!’

Mrs Miggins takes a firm grip of Mrs Pumphrey’s wing. ‘Firstly, this is not a competition and secondly, we are not in it to win it. You need to calm down, my beloved but excitable and crackpot chicken friend.’

The dancing ladies immediately stop with their prancing around and one of them steps forward to  address Mrs Miggins. (But not with brown paper, string and a postage stamp – that would be insane. You cannot post a chicken. Completely the wrong shape.)

‘We take our dancing very seriously, Mrs Miggins,’ she says. ‘Oh, I know we look carefree and frivolous with our gaily smiling faces, our co-ordinated costumes and our tap shoes carefully sandpapered on the soles for extra grip but when we attend any auditions, we always go intending to be triumphant. It’s in the dancer’s psyche, you see…’

‘But…’ begins Mrs Miggins.

The lead dancer holds up her finger. ‘But me no buts, dear Mrs Miggins. When a dancer has an audition, she dances to win the role. I once witnessed Darcey Bussell take out three other auditionees with her port de bras when she auditioned for the role of Odette in ‘Swan Lake.’ You wouldn’t think she had it in her, would you? She seems all sweetness and light on the television but she has a heart of flint and arms of steel when it comes to securing a lead role.’

Mrs Miggins has the wisdom and experience to know when to leave something to others. ‘I’ll leave you with our Mrs Pumphrey, then,’ she says. ‘She knows all about the discipline required to be a top-class dancer, don’t you, Mrs P?’

Mrs Pumphrey nods. ‘I certainly do,’ she says. ‘And I also have some very well-structured port de bras, too. I need them to manage this magnificent bosom of mine…’