And so it begins...

 

I have arrived at the Club Tropicana Room in Much Malarkey Manor, which can mean only one thing - the hens have called an urgent meeting but they aren’t quite ready to give up their sun bed session just yet.

‘Well,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, resplendent in a scarily insy-winsy-teeny-weeny-purple-sequinned-with-feather-accessories-bikini, ‘one should never give up Summer without a fight. You know what they say, don’t you?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I reply. 

Mrs Pumphrey hauls herself from the sun bed upon which she is reclining (Gas Mark 4, turn over and baste at 90 minutes) and adjusts her bosoms. ‘They say,’ she begins darkly, ‘that once Autumn arrives it will mess with your muckle in a mickle if the plumage is bronzed too low.’

Do you know, I can’t even bother to argue. They’ve already called me away from some very important writing in order to attend this meeting - ‘Be at the Club Tropicana Room at 9 sharp - drinks are free’ - so I want their nonsense over and done with as soon as possible so I can go about my day in, as Frank Sinatra would say, my way. 

‘Could we get a move on?’ I say, perching on a bar stool by the Wham Drinks Bar. Mrs Poo is stationed on the serving side, dressed as Tom Cruise in ‘Cocktail’, her sunglasses perched on the end of her beak in a manner that suggests she may have partaken in more than a few Moist Oviducts, her new favourite tipple, just don’t ask me to repeat the ingredients. 

‘Drink?’ says Mrs Poo, giving her shaker a shimmy.

‘Tea, please,’ say I. ‘Made in a pot, brewed for 4 minutes, milk in first.’

Mrs Poo huffs. ‘You’ll be wanting a scone to go with that too, I suppose,’ she says. 

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m watching my waistline.’

‘You’ll have to find it first,’ says Poo, acidic as ever.

‘Rude,’ I say. ‘Where’s Mrs Miggins?’

‘Over yonder, with Mrs Slocombe,’ says Mrs Poo, and points to where a sizeable avian gathering is occurring, poolside. ‘You carry on,’ continues Poo, ‘and I’ll stagger over with your 4 minute cuppa as soon as it’s done.’

At the poolside, the sun loungers have been carefully arranged in a manner that suggests formal business is about to occur. Various familiar figures are jostling for the best lounger, attempting to claim ownership by flicking towels at each other. 

( Now, I should like to point out at this juncture, that a certain pandemic does not, has not, and never will exist in Much Malarkey Manor, nor any of the stories related therein. I do not wish to spoil the joie de vivre of my MMM writing by making any political-type or socially observant ‘jokes’ about ANYTHING to do with it. Frankly, I am heartily fed up of the whole mess. So, when I mention things like ‘crowds of hens at a party having fun’ or ‘Mrs Pumphrey enfolded the distraught kitten into her wings and gave it a warm and healing hug’ I do NOT expect anyone to come back at me with any form of ‘woke’ telling off. I’m too old, crabby and conservative, and my temper too volatile. Just wanted to make that clear. Thank you. Also, have you ever seen a chicken in a face covering? Just doesn’t work. Pointy beaks, you see. And no ears.)

Where was I? Oh yes, the gathering of the happy masses...

‘There you are!’ calls Mrs Miggins, beckoning me to the space she has saved on her lounger. ‘Come on, park up and I’ll call the meeting to order.’

I sit. Mrs Miggins yells ‘ORDER!’ right in my ear and immediately sets off my tinnitus. Hens, cats and other assorted entities fall silent, aside from the occasional clink of glass against glass, and crunch of crisps against beak/teeth.

‘Now,’ begins Mrs Miggins, ‘we’ve been having a casual chat about the Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story 2020, and we remembered that last year you started writing the draft earlier than usual in order to get ahead of the game, correct?’

‘Correct,’ I say. Mrs Poo appears with a cup of tea which clearly hasn’t been brewed for 4 minutes because  it bears an uncanny resemblance to gnats’ pee. There is also a tell-tale film of milk floating on the top.

‘And because you started it early, we felt that we didn’t have much input into the whole planning and allocating of suitable roles etc etc blah blah blah,’ says Mrs Miggins. 

‘Okay,’ I say.

‘So this year,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘we have called an even earlier meeting to avoid this parlous state of affairs re-occurring. It is only,’ and here she pauses to consult her diary, ‘eight weeks and one day until 1st December a.k.a kick off time, which we thought was ample time to talk you through some very thorough planning!’

And she looks triumphantly at the gathered crowd, who send up an enormous cheer! 

‘Yes?’ she says, looking at me for clarification.

‘No,’ says I.

‘What?’ says she, as the crowd fall into silence again. 

‘You are, I’m afraid, a day too late,’ I say. ‘I started the first draft yesterday, in fact, and I have no intention of altering my writing trajectory a single jot.’ 

I take a sip of the tea. It is truly disgusting.

‘This is OUTRAGEOUS!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘We haven’t even discussed who is to be the star this year, let alone ideas regarding plot, costume, setting...’

‘It’s me! I’m the star!’ comes a shout somewhere from the direction of the George Micheal Beach Hut, a shout that sounds very like that arch villain, sometimes good guy, Kenneth the Phantomime.

‘It most certainly is NOT,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you who the star is this year. I am the star this year.’

Well! I might just as well have announced I was pregnant with post-menopausal triplets whom I intended to call Ringo, Bingo and Gromit.

‘You?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘But you can’t act...’

‘I bloody well can,’ I say. ‘And I am fed up every year of being the one who sits in the background doing all the writing and occasionally wafting by with a tray of tea and biscuits. So this year, I am going to be the centre of attention, and you are all just going to have to get used to it. As my Gran would say, ‘Like it or lump it.’ Goodbye!’

And I struggle up from the sun bed and make the most dignified exit a person can make when they have a hefty beach towel caught in the heel of their shoe. 

All eyes in the Club Tropicana Room turn to face Mrs Miggins. In the background, the Phantomime emits a strangled sob. 

At last, the wise and ancient hen speaks.

‘I expect someone has left an empty loo roll on the holder again,’ she says. ‘Just leave her to me. I’ll have normal festive service resumed within the week.’