We Need to Talk About Kenneth

 

On the second day of advent, my 3-D Christmas tree gave to me...a red squirrel on a mission! When I said, 'Oooh, a squirrel!' this morning, Nell went onto high alert because 'squirrel' is one of her trigger words. As are 'garden' and 'biscuit.' Fortunately, she calmed down a couple of hours later when she realised there was no real squirrel, only a cardboard facsimile. On with the story...

...it is later on the same day – just gone 5 p.m to be precise – and the hens are gathered in the staff room having their daily debrief, which involves divesting themselves of their professional work attire, including their shape-smoothing control briefs (bet you didn’t know THAT is the origin of the phrase ‘debrief’!) and slipping into something far more comfortable: dungarees and feminist-slogan T-shirt for Mrs Poo, chinos and a nice blouse for Mrs Slocombe, yoga pants and baggy cashmere jumper for Mrs Miggins, and a tutu, sequinned bustier and feather boa for Mrs Pumphrey. The Phantomime is still unconscious on the sofa. He has woken a couple of times but with a ‘No Christmas Story this year,’ from Mrs Poo, he was out like a light again.

‘What are we going to do with him?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘He’s clearly suffering some kind of trauma.’

‘We’ll just have to be straight and honest with him,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘There’s no point in spinning him any stories. He needs to know the truth.’

‘What truth?’ says the Phantomime, sitting bolt up. He looks both groggy and disorientated, and bug-eyed manic, too.

Mrs Slocombe pours him a cup of tea. ‘Here,’ she says. ‘Drink this and try to stay conscious whilst we explain.’

‘The thing is,’ says Mrs Miggins, clearing her throat, ‘it’s only us hens at the Manor at the moment. And the cat. The Lady Author herself has gone on a retreat.’

The Phantomime looks confused. Mrs Slocombe ladles another two sugars into his tea.

‘A retreat?’ he says. ‘A writing retreat?’ He looks hopeful.

‘Afraid not,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘She has decided to have a sabbatical. From…er…her creative endeavours. And thus, she’s not writing the, well, you know what, this year.’

The Phantomime looks like he is starting to wobble. ‘But,’ he says, ‘what am I going to do this year?’

‘What do you mean?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.

‘Well, I’m the STAR, aren’t I?’ says Kenneth. ‘Me – the star of the Christmas Story. If there isn’t going to be…’ he pauses and gathers himself, ‘…a…a Christmas Story this year, what am I going to do?’

The hens look at each other.

‘There must be something else you could do instead?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘What about your antiques shop? That must be really busy at Christmas. You know, with people wanting to buy, er, unusual gifts.’

‘It’s gone,’ says the Phantomime. ‘The cost of running it became too much. All those hikes in fuel bills, N.I contributions, the price of postage rocketing…’

‘Oh,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who never bothers herself with such mundane trivialities.

‘What about your theatre work?’ says Mrs Miggins, who is quite keen to go home and enjoy a toasted cheese sandwich and bag of crisps.

‘Well, that’s the POINT!’ says Kenneth, becoming animated with sudden rage. ‘I take December off from my theatre commitments, don’t I? Because of the annual Christmas Story gig. It’s been going on for so long that I thought it was a sure-fire commitment for this year, too.’

‘You should be a hen,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘We never count our chickens before they hatch.’

‘This is true,’ agrees Mrs Poo, who has always thought this is why chickens are a superior species. ‘But surely there must be some theatre work you can pick up? It’s a busy time of the year for performers.’

‘Ha!’ says the Phantomime, contemptuously. ‘That just shows how much you know about the high-octane world of theatre. I’ll be lucky to pick up work as an understudy villager in ‘Dick Whittington and His Stupid Cat’ at this time of year. I want the star role in the annual Christmas Story. In fact, I DEMAND the star role in the Christmas Story. Or compensation. Yes, that’s right – COMPENSATION! Me, Kenneth the Phantomine? The undisputed STAR of Christmas without a job? It’s OUTRAGEOUS!!!’

‘No,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘This is outrageous,’ and she steps forward and slaps the Phantomime twice on his cheeks, like she is challenging him to a duel. ‘Now sit down and shut up.’

The Phantomime is so shocked he does as he is told.

‘But what am I to do?’ he says, forlornly. ‘I’ve nowhere to go. Nothing to do.’

Mrs Slocombe, that old softy of a hen, says, ‘Come home with us this evening, Kenneth. We’ll sort something out.’

‘Thanks,’ mutters Mrs Miggins, through gritted beak.

Three hours later, when supper has been consumed and the Phantomime installed in the Hyacinth Bucket suite in the East Wing, the lady hens gather in the kitchen for hot chocolate and ginger biscuits.

‘We need to talk about Kenneth,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I shan’t be able to sleep until we have a plan of action.’

Mrs Poo nods in agreement. ‘We can’t have him moping around here all December,’ she says. ‘He’ll spoil our Christmas.’

‘We are the Elegant Girls’ Guidance Service,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘It is well within our talents and capabilities to find a solution to this problem. If the E.G.G.S can’t do it, no-one can.’

Mrs Miggins retrieves a notepad and pen from the kitchen dresser. ‘Right,’ she says, helping herself to another ginger biscuit, ‘heads together, girls. Let’s make a plan.’