Strike Action Averted

 

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, Beau, and his family on Boxing Day,’ says Ptolemy. ‘I’d get there quicker AND cheaper if I started walking now.’

‘The thing is,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘if you want to make something happen, you’ve just got to go ahead and do it. Have the courage of your own convictions. Have faith in what you are doing. There’s no point in being a bunch of sheep and do what everyone else is doing just for the sake of it. Do you remember the National Lemming Strike back in 1974? ‘Let’s make a point by all running towards that cliff edge,’ they said. So they did. And did it get them anywhere? No, it did not. Only squashed at the bottom of a cliff. I can’t even remember what they were striking for, can you?’

‘I think it was something to do with the use of their species name being appropriated for the branding of a fizzy drink, or something like that,’ says Mrs Poo.

‘Lemmingade?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘It that even a thing?’

They sit and ponder the pointlessness of it all whilst crunching through the over-done mince pies which are improved enormously by dunking in tea.

Jack Green clears his throat.

‘Of course, Mrs Slocombe is right. One of the customs of Yule IS to forget work for a while, and enjoy the fun and festivities. Put your feet up, eat well and be merry. Watch endless repeats of terrible Christmas films on the telly and forget about dusting and ironing for a while. But being Lord of Misrule means that I’ve always worked through Yuletide. You see, though – it’s never felt like work. All through the year I am part of the patterns and cycles that remind us of this amazing world in which we live. I’m around as Springtime emerges, as the crops grow and are harvested. I’m there at the mid-Summer celebrations, the births, the deaths, the times of abundance and the times of poverty. And I’m here now, to be that spark of light and fun that sees us through the short, dark days. I’m the food, the warmth, the peace, the energy. But most of all I am the love, faith and magic that binds us all together. And without love, faith and magic, humans are nothing in this world.’

He looks around the table and sees four hens, a pheasant and a cat all with tears dripping from the ends of their noses, and not because of the parlous state of the mince pies. Mrs Pumphrey pulls a large handkerchief from her pocket and indulges an enormously hooting beak blow.

‘Maybe, then, things have to be turned upside down for better things to happen?’ says Jack.  ‘Maybe the rules of society and the laws of living needs a shake up once a year so we can all have a fresh chance in the year ahead? Maybe work you enjoy isn’t work at all?’

‘Anyway,’ he continues, ‘I shall carry on ‘working’ even though my team have decided to go on strike this year. I’m going to keep on doing what I do because I love this planet Earth. And that’s it really. But you must decide for yourselves what you want to do. I won’t be upset if you decide that all this Festival stuff is too much for you.’

He looks expectantly at the increasingly soggy faces around him.

Mrs Slocombe rises slowly to her feet. ‘Well,’ she says, a sense of determination rising in her voice. ‘I can’t sit here being all sentimental. I have several batches of worms-in-onesies to prepare. They won’t get ready by themselves, will they?’ And she rolls up the sleeves of her chef’s tunic and heads for the refrigerator.

‘Yes!’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I have tickets to issue. They’re selling better than I expected and I need to make sure the website doesn’t crash…’

‘And I have sequins to sew on costumes and scenery to finish painting,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. And then Bambino and Ptolemy join in the sudden bustle of activity that overtakes the whole of Much Malarkey Manor.

Jack Green sits back in his chair and lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Perhaps life will be okay next year after all.