Time Slip

 

On the ninth day of Advent, my 3-D tree gave to me...two geese and an enormous mushroom of toxicity unknown. One of the geese is getting fruity with a piece of mistletoe, definitely poisonous, so I shan't worry if they take a nibble of the mushroom...instead let's travel onwards with the hens as they make their escape from Olden Glish...

...the hens travel for a couple of hours into the night making sure to put a good distance between themselves and the village of Olden Glish. ‘We’ll park up at ‘The Pear Tree’,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Have a bit of breakfast there in the morning.’

‘Good idea,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Hopefully by then Kenneth will realise the insanity of this trip and not put up too much of a fight.’

‘I think we should invite him to spend Christmas with us,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘There’s plenty of badger to go round.’

‘It’ll be a sweetener,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘He does like a Much Malarkey Manor Christmas, after all.’

Mrs Miggins grunts in reluctant agreement. ‘There’s plenty of odd jobs I can set him to do,’ she says. ‘Maybe I can get him to come up with a mini-Christmas show for us. We could invite the village to be an audience, make an evening of it, because I don’t see why we should have to suffer it alone.’

And so, it is agreed. The weary travellers pull into ‘The Pear Tree’ pub just after midnight and, after the brushing of beaks and the generous application of youth-giving face creams, the hens settle into their respective bunks and go to sleep…

…Mrs Miggins is awake first the following morning. The other hens are sensible and wear eye masks in order to block out the daylight for as long as possible, but Mrs Miggins can’t cope with one herself on account of it making her head overheat. She climbs from her bunk, stretches and wonders if ‘The Pear Tree’ is open for business, because she could do with a jolly good pot of tea and doesn’t want to wake the others by brewing one in the motorhome kitchenette.

After dressing, she opens the motorhome door and…

…’This is not ‘The Pear Tree’ pub,’ she says out loud. ‘This is ‘The Rutting Deer.’

For yea verily, ding dong merrily on high, it jolly well is. Unmistakeably so.

‘What’s the matter?’ says Mrs Poo, appearing at Mrs Miggins’ shoulder and yawning in her ear.

‘Did we, or did we not, drive for nearly three hours last night away from Olden Glish?’ says Mrs Miggins.

Mrs Poo agrees that, yes, that’s exactly what they did, because she was driving and they had to listen to Mrs Pumphrey’s playlist of disco divas of the ‘70s and ‘80s in order to drown out Kenneth’s snoring.

‘Then why,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘are we parked up at ‘The Rutting Deer?’ She waves her wing and Mrs Poo’s eyes pop out, all agog.

‘Well I never,’ she says. ‘How peculiar?’

‘Peculiar?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Is that all you have to say, it’s a bit peculiar?’ She shakes her head. ‘We must leave now before Kenneth wakes.’ She closes the motorhome door as quietly as possible. ‘Quick!’ she hisses at Mrs Poo. ‘Into the driving seat. Go, go…GO!’

Well, in scenes that wouldn’t look out of place in a theatrical farce, the following things all happen in a very short space of time. Mrs Poo leaps into the driver’s seat and starts up the engine of the motorhome. Mrs Miggins places a pillow over the Phantomime’s still sleeping head in order to muffle any sudden noises but resists the urge to press down on it and suffocate him unto death. Mrs Poo puts her foot firmly on the accelerator pedal and the motorhome ROCKETS from the car park, making skidding and squealing noises on the gravel. Mrs Pumphrey, who was having a nice dream about Timothee Chalamet and a huge bar of chocolate, falls inelegantly from her top bunk, and Mrs Slocombe shouts ‘Not now, Deirdre!’ and sits up so suddenly she bangs her head on the motorhome’s ceiling.   

And then, as they are travelling at speed up the road and out of Olden Glish, the motorhome suddenly does an emergency stop and several items of loose content therein launch themselves forwards and into the back of Mrs Poo’s head.

‘Ouch!’ shouts Mrs Poo.

‘Why have you stopped?’ shrieks Mrs Miggins.

‘Because THAT has just swerved in front of me!’ shouts back Mrs Poo. ‘And it is now blocking my way.’

She points accusingly at a small blue Fiat 500 that is slewed in front of the motorhome at a very inconvenient angle.

Mrs Poo leaps from her driver’s seat. Everyone, including the Phantomime, is now fully awake.

‘You idiots!’ shouts Mrs Poo, now marching up to the little blue Fiat. ‘You almost had us killed,’ she continues to shout. And, ‘People like you shouldn’t be allowed to drive!’

 The occupants of the Fiat 500 turn out, surprisingly, not to be people at all, but two turtle doves. They are both wearing khaki shirts and camouflage trousers, and upon their heads, brown fedoras a la Indiana Jones-style. They are also wearing heavy duty walking boots, which sit inelegantly on their slim turtle dove ankles. One of the turtle doves is smoking a cigarette; the other takes a swig from a hip flask.

‘Good morning, ma’am,’ says the cigarette smoker. This catches Mrs Poo off-guard because she has never been called ‘ma’am’ in her life. She regains herself quickly though.

‘Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,’ she says. ‘Explain yourselves immediately.’

By now all the hens and a groggy-looking Phantomime have gathered on the road. The first turtle dove sidles up to Mrs Poo and looks around, before leaning in to whisper.

‘We hear you are seeking the Lord General Porpoise,’ he says. ‘Is that right?’

‘What if we are?’ says Mrs Poo. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

‘Oh, it’s got everything to do with us,’ says the turtle dove, ‘on account of me and brother here,’ and he indicates the second turtle dove who is leaning casually against the Fiat 500, ‘happen to be bounty hunters and we are after the Porpoise ourselves.’

‘Well, I don’t see what a coconut chocolate bar has to do with that,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Just move your car will you, so me and my lady companions…’

‘And me,’ pipes up the Phantomime.

‘And the egomaniac,’ says Mrs Poo, ‘so we can be on our way. Bounties, indeed. Revolting in the extreme.’