Road Trip!

 

On the fourth day of Advent, my 3-D tree gave to me...a hare sniffing some flowers, and not, as I initially thought, about to eat some poisonous berries...whew! Crisis averted, then, and on with the story...

...it is 5 a.m and Mrs Poo is loading the hens’ newly acquired motorhome with military precision. Contrary to popular belief, military precision is neither a brand of biscuit, nor highly nutritious soup. I know – hard to believe, eh? Military precision in THIS case means that Mrs Poo has a clipboard, containing lists, and anyone daring to deviate from her lists will find that very same clipboard connecting with their silly heads.

‘How long shall we be gone for?’ she says to Mrs Miggins, who is in the driver’s seat tinkering with the sat-nav.

‘How long is a piece of string?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘As short a time as possible, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘We need to be home by 23^rd December at the very latest,’ says Mrs Slocombe, appearing at the motorhome door with a tin full of freshly backed cake supplies. ‘The Christmas badger is especially big this year and will need a lengthy defrosting time.’

Mrs Miggins harumphs. ‘I hope we shall be home waaaaay before that,’ she says. ‘On reflection, I can’t believe we are actually doing this. I thought this would be a Phantomime-free Christmas. I was actually quite looking forward to a calm and peaceful slide into the festive season.’

‘At least we have a plan,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘And if the plan works, then the rest of our lives will be free from Kenneth-based dramas. I say it’s worth the investment. Also,’ she says, giving one of the motorhome cupboards an affectionate slap, ‘it will be fun to take the Hen-Mobile on a proper lengthy jaunt, won’t it?’

‘I’ll say,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘It will be a pre-Christmas adventure.’

‘Not too much of an adventure though,’ says Mrs Miggins.

Famous last words…

As the sun begins to lift slowly over the gentle hills surrounding Much Malarkey Manor, fading the stars from the sky, the Phantomime wanders casually around the motorhome. It’s an impressive vehicle. Six berth, clever storage, a most acceptable ladies’ toilette facility, luxury kitchenette, plush soft furnishings and all the modern conveniences that go with twenty first century motor-homing.

Mrs Poo delivers a large, satisfying tick to her clipboard list. ‘We are good to go,’ she says. ‘All board, lady travellers and annoying egomaniac!’

‘I’d like to drive,’ says the Phantomime. ‘If that’s okay?’

‘It most certainly is NOT,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I drive this motorhome. I, myself and me alone.’

‘It’s true,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, climbing aboard and settling into one of the travel seats. ‘Driving is definitely Mrs Poo’s job. She comes from a long line of army tank wranglers, you know. No one better to handle a vehicle this size than someone with army tank wrangling in their genes.’

The Phantomime pulls a sad and pouty face. ‘But it’s such a beautiful vehicle,’ he says. ‘I’ll never get another chance to drive such a thing.’

‘No,’ says Mrs Poo.

‘Don’t rile her,’ warns Mrs Miggins, as she and Mrs Slocombe climb aboard.

‘Pleeeeeeeeeeeze…’ says Kenneth. ‘Pretty please with a maraschino cherry on top…’

Mrs Miggins rolls her eyes and consults her schedule. They are already six and a half minutes behind time. ‘Just to the end of the drive,’ she says, and Mrs Poo sighs and climbs into the passenger seat.

‘Do NOT grind the gears,’ she says to Kenneth. ‘Or ride the clutch, or wrench the handbrake. And do NOT fiddle with ANY of the settings. They are all finely tuned and set for the ultimate driving experience.’

Kenneth the Phantomime lets out a whoop and fist-pumps the air. The hens clip on their seatbelts as he clambers into the driver’s seat.

‘Here we go!’ he shouts. ‘Kenneth the Phantomime’s adventure to seek his porpoise!’

‘Purpose,’ says Mrs Miggins, and off they set.

They reach the end of the drive and the motorhome pauses, ready to emerge onto the main road.

‘Left turn here,’ says Mrs Poo, tapping the sat-nav.

‘I think,’ says the Phantomime, narrowing his eyes and gripping the steering wheel tightly, ‘we might go right instead.’

And he slams his foot down on the accelerator pedal and shoots out onto the road.

‘NO!’ shouts Mrs Miggins. ‘You are going the wrong way and I distinctly remember saying you were only allowed to drive to the edge of the Malarkey estate and no further. Stop IMMEDIATELY and hand over the wheel to Mrs Poo!’

‘I’m going to find my porpoise!’ says the Phantomime. ‘And no one is going to stop me!’

He grips the steering wheel and the look of Dick Dastardly in pursuit of a cunning pigeon descends upon his face. ‘I have it on VERY good authority,’ he says, ‘that the best, the wisest and the most magnificent of porpoises lives in the ancient village of Olden Glish.’ He punches some co-ordinates into the satnav and Mrs Poo shrieks.

‘We are about twelve hours’ drive away,’ says the Phantomime. ‘If I put my foot down and we don’t have any breaks, we shall be there by early evening.’

‘You don’t put your foot down in a vehicle like this!’ shouts Mrs Poo, attempting to wrangle the wheel away from the Phantomime’s grasp. Kenneth slaps at her wings, causing him to swerve around the road. Mrs Poo, for the protection of her beloved motorhome, backs off.

‘And I can’t travel for twelve hours without a break,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Lady hens of a certain age need lady breaks. Have you any idea what the daily delivery of an egg can do to one’s pelvic floor? There will be trouble if we don’t stop for regular breaks.’

‘We have on-board toilet facilities!’ shouts the Phantomime.

‘If you think I am using those whilst you are driving like a manic, you are very much mistaken,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘In fact, I think I could do with a lady wee break RIGHT NOW.’

The Phantomime, glances across at Mrs Slocombe, who is looking green around the gills and making ominous sounds of biliousness. He glances in the rear-view mirror. Mrs Miggins’ eyes are so narrowed and her brow so furrowed that she looks on the point of explosion. He sighs and slows down, pulling into the side of the road.

‘See!’ shrieks Mrs Poo. ‘He didn’t even do mirror-signal-manoeuvre! Just pulls in without a thought to other road users.’

‘There are no other road users,’ says the Phantomime, waving him arms around to indicate the empty road. He switches off the engine. Mrs Slocombe heaves into a carrier bag and when she emerges, she says, ‘I’m not a fan of wibbly wobbly driving.’

Mrs Miggins leans forwards and puts her beak menacingly close to the Phantomime’s ear. ‘How about,’ she says, ‘we still go to Olden Glish but Mrs Poo drives, and at least every three hours we stop for a break? We might not arrive by this evening, but at least we shall arrive calm, reasonably happy and in full control of our urinary and digestive systems.’

The Phantomime, surrounded by angry, hysterical, vomiting, stress incontinent hens, realises he has no choice but to agree. And if you’ve ever been a hen-keeper, you’ll know exactly how he feels.