Oh, My Days!

  It is Christmas Eve. It really IS! The Lady Author has caught up with her narrative timeline at just the right moment, almost as if some planning had been involved all along. (It hadn't...) Also, you’ll notice that this final episode is headed by an original drawing of King Charles, Miggins and Pumphrey created by Lord Malarkey himself. How lovely!  Anyway, the lady hens are gathered for a final breakfast in Buckingham Palace before they begin their journey to Sandringham House for the Royal Christmas Day celebrations. ‘I thought I’d wear this to church tomorrow,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, parading around in a rather attractive plum velvet duster coat with flashing fairy light trim. ‘Very nice,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘But my big concern is the King’s Christmas Day speech broadcast. Is Kenneth going ahead with the recording as planned?’ ‘He’s still in bed,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Something about having to rest his exhausted artistic temperament and can we take him up a few crumpets a...

  In the Throne Room, the King Phantomime is stationed on his throne, ready to pull the crocodile pit lever as soon as his rescue is secured and the Grand Duchess Yekaterina tips him the wink. Anna Kissed and Nick Louse, a.k.a the Santanarchist, are playing a tetchy game of ‘Whose Veggie Stew? – the Deluxe Version’. The Granarchist is pacing the floor, annoyed that there still hasn’t been a response to the ransom note. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I thought the British public would be in uproar that their King has been kidnapped.’ ‘Per’aps not,’ shrugs Anna Kissed. ‘Per’aps they are, at last, taking the lead from l’histoire de France, and are growing tired with the ‘ole pomp and circumstance of Monarchy. Per’aps they are sharpening Madame Guillotine as we speak,’ and she lets out a slightly maniacal French titter. ‘Mwahehehehe!’ Nick Louse, who is finding his Santanarchist outfit growing increasingly hot and scratchy, suddenly looks up from studying his hand of cards wher...

  ‘What on EARTH is going on?’ says Mrs Slocombe, as she and Mrs Pumphrey return to the party with two trolley-loads of fish and chip suppers. Spending time amongst the warmth and lovely smells of a British fish and chip shop has improved her mood enormously but that good mood takes a nose-dive when she finds the Not Forgotten Party in total disarray. The Palace Staff are marching around the edge of the room chanting loudly and waving a few hastily scrawled banners made from table cloths and linen napkins. The guests of the Not Forgotten Party have barricaded themselves in the centre of the room, using all the tables and chairs as a make-shift fortress. There is a lot of shouting going on, mostly about chickens and being hungry, although the Lady Author hastens to add that the two are in no way connected. ‘It’s all gone a bit mad,’ says Mrs Miggins, who is perched high on a side board and defending herself with a pair of rather fine silver Georgian candlesticks. ‘The staff is r...

  The Not Forgotten Party guests are arriving at Buckingham Palace. Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo have joined Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Slocombe, and they are busy taking coats, pointing out directions to the toilets and asking who would like a nice cup of tea. Mrs Miggins is taking fish and chip orders, which the guests are thrilled about, because who doesn’t like a nice fish and chip supper over tiny sandwiches and nibbly things on sticks? ‘I’m always a bit suspicious of those can o’ peas,’ says one guest, a chap of elder years who insists on announcing to all and sundry that, ‘I’m eighty-three, you know.’ ‘Canapés?’ suggests Mrs Slocombe. ‘That’s the badger,’ says the elder gentleman. ‘They’re very small. When you’re eighty-three you need something chunky that won’t get stuck in your dentures or make you choke. Fish and chips are just the ticket!’ Mrs Slocombe is very pleased, because at this point in proceedings, fish and chips are the only option. ‘Right,’ says Mrs Miggins, app...

  The Palace staff have gathered in the enclosed courtyard at the back of the Palace. It’s the traditional place for them all to meet in order to receive their puddings and gifts a) because there are a lot of staff members and it’s less of a squash and b) it keeps all their mucky feet from trampling over the carpets. The atmosphere is generally convivial and there is an air of excited expectation because one of the highlights is actually meeting the King and Queen properly and not whilst in passing as they go about daily business. There is a moment of disappointment, then, when instead of the King and Queen emerging from the Palace, the staff is greeted by two hens. Although the staff is aware that the King and Queen are away on their secret holiday, a rumour had been circulating that they might make a brief return for the giving out of the presents, such was the strength of the tradition.  ‘Good morning, everyone!’ says Mrs Pumphrey, trying at least to look regal in a pin...

  It is the day of the Not Forgotten Party - some point in the middle of December, the Lady Author has quite lost track of time at this point in proceedings. The local fish and chip shop – ‘Your Plaice or Mine’ – has been forewarned and has stocked up on fish, sausages, potatoes, oil, salt, vinegar, ketchup and, bizarrely, curry sauce, which is an abomination to the joy of chips but there’s no accounting for some people’s taste. Mrs Slocombe has been buttering bread for butties and making the biggest jam roly-poly this side of the Atlantic, and Mrs Pumphrey has been descaling the tea-turn. ‘What time are the guests arriving?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Slocombe checks the schedule provided by Mrs Miggins. ‘Five thirty,’ she says. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’ ‘And what exactly IS the Not Forgotten Party?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Well,’ says Mrs Slocombe, pausing mid-buttering, ‘it’s a celebration for the members of the Not Forgotten Association who support ex-members of the British A...