‘Panic ye not,’ says Mrs Miggins, peeling off her jumpsuit and flinging it into the corner of the kitchen. ‘It is NOT Christmas. No need for any baking pinny action just yet. You can pop the kettle on though.’
‘What’s that photo for then?’ says Mrs Slocombe, pointing at the top of the blog.
‘It’s to signal an impeding catastrophe, that’s what,’ says Mrs Poo. She, too, removes her jumpsuit and chucks it across the room where it lands neatly on top of Mrs Miggins’ already discarded outfit. ‘It means we have been recalled early to Much Malarkey Manor because SOMEONE is having an existential crisis and has taken herself off on a retreat to sort herself out, leaving US to do all the hard work as usual.’
Mrs Pumphrey lets out a sigh of relief. Firstly, because if it WAS Christmas then she certainly hadn’t learned her lines for the Annual Christmas Story Extravaganza which would not only make her look a right plum, it would ruin her thespian reputation, too. And secondly, her own jumpsuit is a tad on the snug side and now she has released herself from it, the instant expansion of her previously corseted waistline is a blessed relief. ‘Well, hurrah for that,’ she says, for she has also remembered that she always goes on a pre-Christmas diet two months ahead of the festive season so that she can pile it all back on come the Big Day.
Mrs Miggins settles herself at the kitchen table. Through the kitchen window she can see a tangle of parachutes on the lawn. When she’d received the call to arms yesterday the only way she and the other gals could arrive at the Manor at any speed was to hire a plane and parachute themselves in. It had seemed a jolly good idea at the time but had, in fact, been a lesson in screeching, flailing and knowing that those four parachutes would still be in a tangled mess on the lawn this time next year if they weren’t tidied up tout de suite. A sleek, James Bond-style landing operation it certainly had not been.
Mrs Slocombe is busying herself at the kettle and has found a stash of ginger biscuits in a tin. ‘I was enjoying our holiday,’ she says, sighing. ‘All that lovely sunshine and seaside. Not a care in the world. An endless buffet, entertainment on tap…’
‘Where were we again?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Butlins at Camber Sands,’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘And why were we there again?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘We were in hiding from Covid-19,’ sighs Mrs Miggins, like she hasn’t explained this at least 273 times before.
There is a bit of a silence whilst Mrs Miggins awaits the next question and Mrs Pumphrey wonders if she is brave enough to ask it.
‘Well, go on then!’ says Miggins, not renowned for her patience, especially when it comes to the inevitable.
‘What?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, all innocence and coyness.
‘Ask the question!’ says Mrs Miggins.
Mrs Pumphrey takes a deep breath. ‘What’sCovid19?IsitlikeOcean’s11orS-Club7?’
And she ducks just in time to avoid the air-bourne biscuit tin.
‘Look,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘This is the last time I’m going to explain this to you and then we shall NEVER mention it again, okay?’
‘Okay,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, from beneath the kitchen table.
Mrs Miggins fixes her stare on the space previously occupied by Mrs Pumphrey.
‘For the last year and a half we have been on holiday to keep ourselves isolated from the Covid-19 virus. It is a virus from which you might die, but probably won’t. You might be very sick with it, but then you might have no symptoms whatsoever and won’t even notice you’ve got it. You might sneeze a bit, you might end up in hospital. You’re likely to recover unless you don’t. If you go to hospital for something else you might catch it whilst you are there but the hospitals will be closed anyway. Anyone can catch it and pass it on, or possibly not. There have been rules about it but few are actual laws so pick and choose how you like. Don’t go near anyone under ANY circumstances. Sanitise everything. Even sanitiser. Get your shopping ordered online and delivered unless the supermarket denies the existence of your postcode so go shopping as usual. You can do some things but not other things unless you are someone who decides rules don’t apply to them because they are in some way more important than someone else. You can’t travel until you can, and you have to wear a mask in certain situations but not all situations according to how you breathe in those situations, but you don’t have to wear a mask if you breath differently. Dispose of, or wash your mask, after EVERY use unless you are a grubby oik or have better things to do with your time. You are not allowed to get your eyes tested or have extra-marital naughtiness unless the rules don’t apply to you in which case, fill your boots. You have to stay home all the time unless it is convenient to go outside for some reason. It is wholly your choice to be vaccinated, but you will be ostracised if you don’t do the ‘right thing’ which is to be vaccinated because everyone says so except the people who don’t. You are encouraged to stick a massive cotton bud up your nose and down your throat on a regular basis to test for the virus, a test which is very reliable and accurate except when it isn’t. You will live in a state of the heebie-jeebies if you believe everything you read in the papers and see on the TV unless you ignore it all in which case you will live in a state of relative calm. Toilet rolls will be in short supply. Look after your teeth. Wash your wings. Cancel Christmas. Bang pans to keep the NHS awake. Don’t pop your bubble. Don’t kill Granny. Have I been QUITE clear???’
Everyone nods because they switched off their attention spans about twenty eight words into this diatribe, and tea and biscuits are proving far more interesting. Mrs Miggins is puffing a bit, but manages to force down a ginger nob nonetheless.
‘So, what are we here for, then?’ says Mrs Slocombe.
Mrs Miggins shrugs. ‘Hold the fort,’ was all the message said,’ she says.
‘We can do that!’ says Mrs Poo, who is always emboldened by any vocabulary linked to warfare.
‘We can,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘But first, we need to untangle those parachutes.’
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