Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Come Out

 

On the thirteenth day of Advent my 3-D tree gave to me...well, at first I thought it was a peahen BUT on closer inspection I declare it to be a guinea fowl. It's looking remarkably serene for a guinea fowl. Must be the calming effect of the baubles it's carrying in its beak. Today is also Nell the Poo's 3rd birthday. Happy Birthday Nellibobs! And now, we are off for a drive in a Fiat 500... 

...Kenneth the Phantomime, of course, has no idea the hens are in hot pursuit of him. He would be annoyed if he did know because he is having the BEST of times and has no intention of turning back. Once the motorhome had vanished into the distance, he climbs aboard the Fiat 500 with the turtle doves, Juan and Enrico, and they set off in the opposite direction.

‘What about the three French hens?’ he says, turning to look at the road behind him.

‘They have their own transport,’ says Enrico. ‘They’ll catch up, if we let them.’

Kenneth continues to watch the hens and sees them pull a three seated tandem from the hedge, shaking it free of leaves and twigs before they climb aboard.

‘Wow,’ he says, as the French hens push off and begin pedalling in unison at an impressive speed. Hens aren’t the most ergo-dynamic of creatures but these three are cutting through the air like a hot knife through butter.

‘The thing is,’ says Juan, who is in the driving seat, ‘the French hens are at the same time very annoying and very helpful. We are all after bringing the Lord General Porpoise to justice, and we should be able to work together to make it happen BUT…’

And he tails off and waves his hand in a gesture of frustrated exasperation.

The Phantomime nods. He’s had a lot of experience of annoying hens, too. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘I know.’ And then, ‘Do you mind if I open the window?’ he says. ‘I like a bit of fresh air when I’m travelling.’

Juan shrugs. ‘If you like.’

Kenneth opens the window and a sheen of glitter flies out into the breeze.  He settles back in his seat. ‘So, where are we going?’ he says.

Enrico leans forward from where he is sitting in the back seat. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘we’ve had some information that the Lord General Porpoise is hiding incognito in some sort of citadel on the very outskirts of a small hamlet called Humble Roots.’

The Phantomime titters. ‘So he comes from Humble Roots, does he?’

His little joke is met with a tumbleweed of silence, and quite right, too.

‘And,’ says Enrico, continuing on, ‘we believe that he is attempting to rebrand himself in a more favourable light in order to make his public comeback.’

‘His public comeback?’ says Kenneth, looking shocked. ‘But surely, after that…what he did…surely he can never show his face in public ever again?’

‘You’d think, wouldn’t you?’ says Juan, as they make a right turn at a junction. ‘But you know what these famous types are like. They think if they keep a low profile for a couple of years the general public will forget any scandal and eventually accept them back. And THAT, my Phantomime friend, is why we are going to bring him to the authorities.’

‘It’s our public duty,’ agrees Enrico.

‘And the bounty prize just makes it all sweeter,’ says Juan.

As they continue their journey, the Phantomime sits back and thinks. He still wants to ask the Lord General Porpoise his questions because, despite it all, the book he read was most insistent that the creature was of a higher and ancient wisdom and would be able to answer all his questions and solve all his problems. For not only is the Phantomime at a loss about what to do with his December, he has also been feeling a bit lost with life in general.

They travel on a while and then Juan slows down and pulls the Fiat 500 into a deserted countryside lay-by.

‘According to our information, we are nearing our destination,’ he says. ‘But it would be best if we continue from here on foot. It would, I am loathe to say, also be better if we wait for the three French hens to arrive. We don’t want them gate-crashing and causing issues.’

Enrico nods. ‘They aren’t known for their subtle approach to bounty hunting,’ he says. ‘We’ve lost jobs in the past because they’ve charged in all gung-ho and throwing their onions around.’

‘In fact,’ says Juan, scratching his chin thoughtfully, ‘I wonder if we might call for reinforcements. What do you think, Enrico?’

‘Reinforcements?’ says the Phantomime. He doesn’t like the sound of more people becoming involved in this venture, mostly because it dilutes the spotlight on him. ‘What sort of reinforcements?’

‘Have a look at this,’ says Juan. He pulls a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket, unfolding it carefully and handing it the Phantomime. ‘This gives you some idea of the scale of the monster we shall be dealing with…’

‘Woah!’ says Kenneth, his eyes bugging. ‘I didn’t know a porpoise could be THAT big!’

‘The Lord General Porpoise isn’t an ordinary porpoise,’ says Enrico. ‘It is going to take more than three French hens, two turtle doves and a…what is it exactly are you?’

Kenneth looks offended. ‘I’m a Phantomime,’ he says. ‘I am unique.’

‘…whatever,’ says Enrico, waving a dismissive wing, ‘it’s going to take more than six of us to bring him in. He’s a mean and crafty piece of work, as you know, and it will take a lot of cunning to get him in a position where we can throw a bag over his head and make a run for it.’

‘What are you thinking?’ says Juan. ‘Are you thinking eggs, maybe?’

‘Oh no!’ says Kenneth. ‘Don’t get them involved. They’ll be useless. They’ve only been running that business for a short while and my previous experiences of working with them have proven what a bunch of hysterical…’

Juan holds up his wing. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he says.

‘The E.G.G.S,’ says Kenneth. ‘The new business venture of Missus Miggins, Pumphrey, Slocombe and Poo. What are you talking about?’

‘Well, eggs,’ says Juan. ‘You know…boiled, fried, scrambled, poached, devilled, mayonnaised. The Lord General Porpoise loves them. Feeding him up on eggs is a way to expose his weak spot. What we need is a team of prolific egg layers…’

‘…like the six geese a-laying, for example?’ says Enrico. ‘What an eggsellent idea!’