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 Goat, which is a pagan fertility symbol.’
‘A pagan
fertility symbol?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘We’ll have none of THAT malarkey here, my
lad. Go on, outside with you now. You can come back in this evening for your
storytelling session, and not before. Pagan fertility, indeed!’
Jack laughs
and duly trots off. Looking through the ballroom window, Mrs Miggins can see a
queue of cars making their way down the driveway. ‘Right!’ she says, turning to
her team. ‘Here we go! Who’s on Circus Skills duties?’
Ptolemy
Pheasant steps forwards, dressed in a sequined leotard and tights, and with a
top hat balanced precariously on his head. He appears to be sporting some sort
of twirly faux moustache on his top beak/bill/birdy lippy thing, too. Either that or he’s been
rootling for slugs for breakfast and has missed one.
‘I am the
Ring Master!’ says he, strutting around in a suitably ringmaster-like fashion.
Mrs
Pumphrey giggles. ‘Oooh, PP!’ she says.
‘You look thoroughly magnifique!’
Mrs Miggins
is thinking she should take the precaution of sending Mrs Pumphrey off-site for
the day. The whole ‘fertility’ aspect of today’s Yule Festival seems to be
sending her into realms of the unnecessary.
However,
because we have already established that Bambino can read minds, AND he has
been complaining to the Writer that he doesn’t seem to be featuring much in the
story of late, he steps forwards with a solution to Mrs Miggins’ thoughts. ‘Mrs
Pumphrey,’ he says, ‘would you be kind enough to accompany me in the motorbike
and sidecar ensemble for a trip into the village? We need to source some,
er…sauce for the puddings Mrs Slocombe is making for the story-telling session
this evening?’
‘I’m not
making puddings,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I’m making mince pies.’
‘Aaah,’
says Bambino, ‘but you MIGHT be making puddings, mightn’t you? And they might
be puddings that require sauce, yes?’ And he tilts his head in the direction of
Mrs Pumphrey who is now all over Ptolemy Pheasant like a rash. And he adds a
big wink for added effect.
Mrs
Slocombe looks confused. ‘Really, I am NOT making puddings as well as mince
pies. If people don’t like mince pies they can stuff it up their ba…’
‘Just
pretend to make some sodding puddings!’ shouts Mrs Miggins, pointing at Mrs
Pumphrey. ‘And get that wanton hussy out of here!’
Mrs
Slocombe finally acts like a branch, and twigs. ‘Oh, I SEE…’ she says. ‘Well,
yes, actually I DO need some sauce for the ‘puddings’, and it would be VERY
helpful if Bambino and Mrs Pumphrey could go and find some for me.’
But Bambino
has already prised Mrs Pumphrey off Ptolemy and is leading her to the front door.
‘We’ll be back MUCH later!’ he calls over his shoulder.
‘Thanks!’
shouts Mrs Miggins. She is loving how everyone is working together as a team
once more.
The sun is
setting by 4.30 p.m, as is its wont at this time of year. The outdoor festival
activities have been another success. And now, as the afternoon chills and
darkens, people are heading into the warmth of the Manor and to the ballroom to
enjoy the telling of the story of the Christmas Goat via the medium of dance,
drama and shadow puppetry. Mrs Slocombe is on hand with wassail and mince pies.
The gentle hum of happy voices resonates around the ballroom as people take
their seats. A small child asks, ‘Will there be real ghosts, Mum?’ And her mum
says, ‘It’s a goat story, not a ghost story. Don’t worry.’
Now,
because of the nature of pagan fertility stories and Mrs Miggins being
determined to make this Yule Festival a family event, she has decided on a harmless festive goat game, free of smut and alarm, and instead full of harmless joy and fun.
She has called it ‘Goat and Seek’. She has her fingers crossed.
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