Oh, My Days!

 It’s very easy to go stir crazy in this no-man’s land between Christmas and the New Year. Especially when the weather doesn’t help by being grey and drizzly. Next year, (and I’ve already made a note in my diary to this effect) I’m going to make sure this dead end week is better organised so I don’t fall into a miserable slump. Anyway, today Lord Malarkey and I scooted off to Shrewsbury for a bit of a mooch and rootle around the sales.  I spent my Christmas Waterstones gift card (thanks, Mum!) on these… I’m especially excited to read the Terry Pratchett biography. I’m a huge fan of his novels and am currently re-reading ‘Lords and Ladies’ and being scared witless by the point in the plot where Magrat Garlick is being pursued by horrid elves…seriously, not something to read just before bedtime *shudders* In ‘White Stuff’, which is one of my favourite clothes shops, I bought two pairs of woolly tights to add to my woolly tights collection. Now, the cost of White Stuff woolly tights has s

  It is a Christmas Eve like no other. With the Manor now but a mere smudge of a memory on the landscape, the hens, Ptolemy, Bambino and Jack have all decamped to the bothy. Although several offers of hospitality have come from the village, everyone agrees they would rather stay on home ground.   ‘It’d be odd being elsewhere at Christmas,’ says Ptolemy. ‘And I reckon there’s enough supplies to make a good, if simple, Christmas dinner,’ says Mrs Slocombe, looking through the kitchen cupboard. ‘I’ll go into the village and buy some more provisions,’ says Jack. ‘It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done for me.’ Everyone agrees that although it is a tad cramped in the bothy, there is no other place they want to be. And that’s all they need for this moment in time. To be together, to think about what has happened and what they are going to do next. ‘Bit of a turn up for the books, all that stuff with Kenneth the Phantomime, wasn’t it?’ says Bambino. ‘Who knew he could be so v

  Ptolemy and Mrs Pumphrey arrive at the bothy chattering away, too awake for sleep and safe from the clutches of Odin. ‘Isn’t is marvellous, how our fortunes are beginning to turn?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. She settles in the chair by the woodburning stove whilst Ptolemy rustles up a couple of mugs of hot chocolate with all the extras – cream, marshmallows, a dusting of cinnamon and a shortbread biscuit. ‘It is,’ says Ptolemy. ‘I’ve really enjoyed the last few days. It feels like we have done something purposeful to help the Manor get through these difficult times. And we’ve helped Jack Green, too. He was in such a pickle when I first met him.’ Mrs Pumphrey agrees. ‘I’m still not sure about Mrs Miggins’ plans to renovate the attics, though. I mean, I enjoy company and all that, but having people living there with us, even if it’s only for holidays? I’m not sure.’ They talk into the hours of early morning, and play a couple of games of Scrabble, both of which Mrs Pumphrey wins becaus

  ‘On the darkest, longest night of the year,’ begins Jack Green, Lord of Misrule, ‘it is never wise to venture outside once the sun has dipped below the horizon. Much safer to stay indoors where you will be safe and warm. Do not walk your dog, nor nip to the pub because there is nothing much on telly and the pub is running a far more entertaining quiz night. And especially do not stand under the clear night sky and admire the billions of stars up there in the infinite and glorious space we call our Universe. Because if you ignore my warnings and you DO stand outside and look up, you will see that not all the stars are standing still whilst they glitter and shine. Some of them are moving, and are moving at a fast pace, too. The sort of speed that, if you tried to escape, your efforts would be both futile…and fatal…’ ‘Is it Father Christmas?’ calls out a child. ‘Is it Santa and his reindeer racing across the sky delivering presents to all the children in the world? Is he bringing me a

  And so here we are, at the Winter Solstice. It’s the shortest day of light today. From tomorrow, the tops and tails of days will start to lighten again as we head out towards Springtime. Now THAT’S something to celebrate, is it not? That’s what Yule is all about. Celebrating what’s ahead of us to look forward to. That, and an excuse to eat a chocolate Yule log. Nom, nom, nom… At Much Malarkey Manor, the hens can’t quite believe how successful the first two days of the Yule Festival have been. They are gathered around the kitchen table, going over final plans for today, this Grand Finale to all the events that have happened. ‘Who’d have thought that a few days ago we were in such dire straits?’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Just goes to show how much life can change in the space of hours.’ ‘Yes,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I believe we might be able to have a bit more than cheese on toast and Twiglets for our Christmas Day celebrations after all. And our bank account is looking a lot healthier than it

  Away from the festivities at the Manor, Kenneth the Phantomime is travelling to the town of Titbury von Streudelheim for the last auction sale of the year. He is so excited at the prospect of how much the sale of the rare Viking doll will bring that when he takes his seat at the auction house and happens to glance down, he realizes he is wearing mismatched socks, a travesty for one of such sartorial elegance as he. ‘Never mind,’ he says to himself. ‘I expect I’ve got a matching pair to these at home! Ahahahahaha!’ (His excitement is also such that he is even prepared to forgive whoever put a goat in his kitchen overnight. The goat is very cute. Its collar said its name was Bernard. But it did eat his oven gloves. And the tea towel with the print of Frida Kahlo on it.) The auction room is filling up. The Phantomime can hear the buzz of excitement about his Viking doll lot. He smiles to himself. He knows there is a lot of interest, not only in the room itself, but from abroad. He

  Dear Reader(s), there have been issues surrounding the writing of the chapter of the ‘Festival of the Goat.’ The Writer has been distracted and scuppered by petty daily annoyances involving (in no particular order): sheep and Vladimir Poo Tin’s lid, being signed up the People’s Pension against her wishes, an almond and a tooth filling, the rewriting of a Will for the sake of a £25 Marks and Spencer’s gift card, a watch battery dying at the exact point she needed that watch, chuffing thieving starlings EVERYWHERE, a previously unheard of inertia regarding when to put up the Christmas tree, AND sub-zero temperatures making sitting and writing a jolly chilly activity. Anyway, all these things conspired to drain the creative muse from her. Just as she was beginning to lose faith in Day 19 and thinking that maybe she could use going on strike as an excuse for a blank page, she received a phone call. Particularly observant readers amongst you might have noticed the absence of a figure

  Bolstered by the success of the Festival of the Yule Boar, and possibly the consumption of too much spicy sausage, Mrs Miggins, Mrs Pumphrey, Mrs Slocombe, Mrs Poo, Ptolemy Pheasant, Jack Green and Bambino Bobble Wilson are up early and eager to crack on with the Festival of the Yule Goat. ‘Ooooh, I say,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, as Jack appears in the ballroom dressed as a goat, with (dare I whisper) tackle up and out, ‘that’s a risqué costume if ever I saw one!’ And she steps forward to make a closer inspection, because Mrs Pumphrey is all about the detail. (N.B Be reassured it is faux costumery tackle, a magnificent cod-piece if you will, and nothing even vaguely resembling anything realistic. Just saying. Didn’t want anyone to panic or report me to the Master of the Revels for flouting indecency laws.) ‘As Lord of Misrule,’ says Jack, trotting around in his goat costume (mostly to keep a distance between himself and Mrs Pumphrey) today is the day when I represent the Christmas Go

  Crowds are beginning to flock to Much Malarkey Manor. Of course they are. We can’t have a half-hearted dribble of public interest at this stage of the game, can we? Not when the Writer has only 24 days to cram loads of ideas into a relatively short story, and she is beginning to realise she hasn’t paced herself very well this year. (She did think about extending the life of the story another week, to New Year’s Eve, but decided against it for two reasons: 1) it would set a precedent and next year she might not be so abundant with the creative flow and b) she wouldn’t want to inflict upon the delicate sensibilities of the Dear Reader(s) the, quite frankly, riotous nature of a Much Malarkey Manor New Year’s Eve Party. So, full steam ahead with pace and content. The Writer is sure she’ll find an equation to make it all work for a Christmas Eve conclusion.) Mrs Poo, resplendent in a high-vis jacket and waving luminous green air-traffic control paddles in the air is directing the stream

  Mrs Slocombe, who has never done so much cooking and baking in such a short space of time in her life, has been reading up about Yuletime traditions. And at elevenses the next day, she calls an impromptu meeting. She bangs on the kitchen table with a mince pie from a batch that has been left in the oven slightly too long because she’d been preoccupied with stirring a pot of soup on the hob and didn’t hear her timer ding. ‘I’ve been reading about Yuletime traditions,’ she says. ‘And one of them specifically states that it is customary to do no work during the Yuletime.’ ‘That would explain the raft of strikes that are going on,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘When I dropped off the Festival tickets at the post office for Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff to sell, she told me that the last posting date before Christmas for second class letters was actually 5 th August! I suppose that means I shall be delivering Christmas cards by hand this year.’ ‘I tried to book a train ticket to go and visit my cousin, B

  The following day, activities at the Manor can only be described as ones of hustle, bustle, noise and tussle. The festive season seems back on track and although Mrs Slocombe ventures once into the attics and gazes forlornly at the space where her perambulator once stood, she is soon called back to the activity in the house as Operation Yuletide gets underway. Mrs Miggins has taken to the library with Jack Green in order to write refreshed and modern up-to-date Yuletime stories. They’ve decided that perhaps tales of murder, kidnap and vandalism aren’t wholly appropriate as festive celebrations in this modern age, no matter how hilarious they might have been during their heyday. Mrs Slocombe is in charge of catering, Mrs Poo is in charge of advertising and promotion, Mrs Pumphrey in charge of costume and set design and attracting stallholders for a Christmas Market. Not too many German sausage stalls, though. Because yes, you can have too much of a good thing. Ptolemy Pheasant is gr

  It is late in the evening and Jack Green is sitting in the kitchen by the Aga relating stories of his experiences of being Lord of Misrule to the increasingly cheerful-looking hens. All animosity between Mrs Miggins and Misses Pumphrey, Poo and Slocombe is forgotten, so caught up are they in this unexpected chance to have the sort of exciting Christmas celebrations to which they are accustomed. Even Bambino is considering rescheduling his Caribbean cruise. Mrs Miggins is sitting at the kitchen table scribbling away in her massive planning notebook. This is where she excels – organising the chaotic into the slightly less chaotic. She especially enjoys it if it’s at short notice and the pressure is on. Put a hen in hot water, and what do you get? Action, that’s what. And possibly the smell of some fancy bubble bath. ‘So,’ she says, ‘basically, we are going to help you put on a three-day Yuletide Festival celebration which will reinforce the magic of the Old Ways of the Land and sec