Olden Glish Welcomes Safe Drivers

 

On the sixth day of Advent, my 3-D tree gave to me...the beautiful dove of peace. It looks like it's about to sneeze...meanwhile, our intrepid travellers continue on to their destination...

...‘The Pear Tree’ pub not only does a very nice evening menu, it also opens its doors for breakfast, and that’s where we find the lady hens and Kenneth the Phantomime the following morning.

‘I’m going to have good old bacon sandwich,’ says Mrs Poo, rubbing her wings together. ‘That’ll set me up nicely for the final leg of the journey to Olden Glish.’

‘Olden Glish?’ says Mr Arnold (not Alan) Partridge, who has just arrived at the table to take their breakfast orders. ‘You’re not going to Olden Glish, are you?’

‘As it happens, yes we are,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Why? Is there a problem with Olden Glish?’

Mr Arnold Partridge pauses and looks at each of them in turn. ‘Is there a problem with Olden Glish?’ he says. And then he throws his head back and roars with laughter, which is quite a thing to see in a partridge. He continues to laugh whilst taking their breakfast orders, and heads back to the kitchen still tittering and sighing, and wiping his eyes on his apron.

‘I take it from that there could well be problem with Olden Glish,’ says Mrs Miggins.

‘No!’ says the Phantomime. ‘I won’t have it. Everything will be fine.’

‘We’ve come this far,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is even more interested in Olden Glish now she’s heard there’s ‘a problem’ with it. ‘It would be a waste of an interesting trip to go home now.’

‘We are NOT going back,’ says the Phantomime. ‘I need to find Lord General Porpoise. I shall never sleep again if I don’t.’

Therefore, when Mr A Partridge returns with their breakfast orders, and bursts into laughter again, they all choose to ignore him. As he places Mrs Pumphrey’s French toast with a side order of French toast in front of her, he says, ‘Give my regards to Mrs Glossop, will you? She’s landlady of ‘The Rutting Deer.’ I’m sure you’ll bump into her at some point. And good luck, eh?’

‘The Rutting Deer, eh?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, chomping into her French toast. ‘That sounds feisty.’

By ten o’clock, our intrepid explorers are resuming their travels towards the now infamous village of Olden Glish.

‘Just over one hundred miles,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘We should be there by lunchtime.’

The Phantomime can barely contain his excitement. ‘I’ve been making a list of questions to ask Lord General Porpoise,’ he says. ‘I’ve got seventeen so far.’

‘What if you can only have three?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘You know, like in all good fairy stories, the hero can only have three wishes.’

The Phantomime is momentarily side-tracked at being referred to as a hero, but soon regains his sensible head. ‘The Lord General Porpoise is NOT a fairy story,’ he says with, he has to admit if only to himself, a lot of conviction.

‘Oh really?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘There’s possibly a wise and all-seeing porpoise that can live on land who inhabits a village that has a history of paranormal and magickal activities and you don’t think it might be a bit of a fairy story?’ She arches an eyebrow.

‘It does sound a bit far-fetched,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I hope you’ve factored an element of potential disappointment into your expectations. Not everything that is reported to be real, even by the most reliable of sources, is actually real, you know.’

‘It’s true,’ says Mrs Poo, from the driving seat. ‘My parents told me we’d have some gorilla-flavoured ice-cream when we went on my first sea-side holiday. I was so excited! I mean, gorilla-flavoured ice-cream??’ She sniffs at the memory. ‘Turns out they meant vanilla. I’ve never got over it.’

‘I’ve been researching Olden Glish,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, piping up from the dining area of the motorhome where she’s been sitting with her laptop. ‘I have to say, it seems a very interesting place to visit. And, Mrs Slocombe, judging by the photos on their website, it looks like Christmas is up and running, too. They’ve got a market coming up with Christmas stalls, games, fairground rides, carolling – all the usual stuff.’

Mrs Slocombe is thrilled. She’s a bit behind with her Christmas shopping this year, on account of her now working full time at the E.G.G.S. ‘Oh, that’s something to look forward to, then,’ she says. ‘I love a good Christmas market.’

Mrs Pumphrey scrolls through the webpage. ‘It doesn’t say anything about it being good,’ she says.

Two and a half hours later, just as tummies are beginning to rumble for lunch, Mrs Poo points ahead. ‘There!’ she says. ‘Welcome to Olden Glish twinned with Pachamachay in Peru.’

‘Watch out!’ shouts Mrs Miggins, as they pass the sign. ‘There’s a speed trap.’

‘I’m not speeding,’ says Mrs Poo.

‘And that’s not a speed trap,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘According to the website, that is Lord Magpie-Hutton, who takes it upon himself to catch speeding vehicles approaching Olden Glish following an injury to his beloved spaniel, Trumper, who was clipped by a speeding car a few years ago and now walks with a limp. What Lord Magpie-Hutton is holding is not a speed gun but, in fact, a hair dryer. Apparently, it’s a very effective deterrent.’

‘Oh, good grief,’ sighs Mrs Miggins.

But it is too late now. They have arrived at their destination and as they drive further on, the surrounding countryside converges into a village with narrow roads, soft yellow bricked buildings and a large village green, upon which sits ‘The Rutting Deer’ pub.

‘I might as well pull in there,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘At least we can have a spot of lunch and make enquiries about this Porpoise character.’

‘And, wings crossed,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘we might be on our way home tomorrow. I am not liking this at all. Not one little tiny bit. It’s giving my gizzard the shivers.’