Mrs Poo has found a very useful room. It is called ‘The Arts
and Crafts Room’ and is not, as one might expect in a Royal residence, an
homage to William Morris, Edward Burne-Jones, Ford Madox Brown et al, and their
kick-back against the mass-produced manufacture of goods following the
Industrial Revolution, in favour of a return to style, craftsmanship and
aesthetic taste #minihistorylesson.
No, this is an actual room for the actual arting and
crafting of which, of course, William Morris would thoroughly approve. Its
walls are lined with shelves and cupboards which are filled with all sorts of
arty-crafty malarkey – decorative papers, paints, clay, pencils, collage
materials, glue, double sided sticky tape, beads, fabrics, wool – you name it,
it’ll be there. Apart from glitter, on account of it being non-eco-friendly,
and King Charles being a long-time Champion of Mother Nature – hurrah! It is an
art and craft room that puts Mrs Miggins’ new art studio at the Manor to shame.
‘This is more like it,’ says Mrs Poo, rubbing her wings
together.
And then she stops. For when it comes to creativity
involving sticking things to other things, or weaving things together, or
sewing, or knitting, or creating works of art in ANY way, shape or form, Mrs
Poo is not the most naturally gifted of hens. Give her a tool kit and she can
take apart and reassemble the engine of an S-type Jaguar and have it running as
sweet as a nut quicker than you can say, ‘Pass me my ratcheting wrench – my
flanges needed loosening.’ But give her a glue gun and some sequins and…well,
all you’ll get is sticky sequins. Mrs Poo slumps into the chair at the crafting
table.
‘I haven’t completely thought this through,’ she says.
The thing is, the amazing Christmas Card for Everyone idea
was in her mind, bright as the noon day sun over the Sahara desert, but there
the idea was stuck - belligerent, determined and not at all sure how to escape the
Brain of Mrs Poo in order to become a reality. All creative people have this
problem from time to time – the Grand Plan, clear as crystal in the mind’s eye,
yet forced to stay where it is because of factors wholly in the control of the
creator. These factors include self-doubt, fear of failure, fear of ridicule
and sometimes downright laziness, but it is a real and sometimes terrifyingly
frustrating experience for the artist’s brain. It’s a specific type of
blockage, like if you use ultra-quilted toilet paper and you have a septic
tank. Pipework becomes bunged up, effluent becomes stagnant. And sometimes it
becomes so bad it backs up into other areas of your life until the urge to have
a good flush through becomes mandatory. And this is exactly what Mrs Poo is
experiencing at this very moment and she has no idea where she’s stored her
drain rods.
‘I’m going to have to ask one of the others for help,’ she
says. She doesn’t want to ask one of the others for help, because this is HER
idea and she wants to be able to implement it all by herself. But she doesn’t
know how. She doesn’t know how to take the first step towards realising her creative
goal. She also knows that if she asks one of the other hens, they will take
over her idea and then it will become THEIR idea and not HER idea and she’ll be
a right grump for three days at least.
‘You can do zis,’ a voice whispers. ‘Your idea iz brilliant
and you haf it within you to zuczeed. Joost zit und zink, and ze vay vill
become clear, like a crystal on zee egg by Faberge.’
Mrs Poo, who has been sitting with her head in her wings, sits
up suddenly.
‘Who said that?’ she says. ‘Who’s here?’
‘Oh vot does it matter?’ says the voice. ‘You are descended
from a long line ov nobles, und you haf ingenuity, cunning und guile in your
weins. Joost zit und zink, great-great-great grandhen ov Grand Duchess
Yekatarina ov Polovitska…’
And the voice fades as quickly as it has appeared, leaving
Mrs Poo to wonder if the oats in her breakfast porridge had been well past
their use-by date.
Meanwhile, along the corridor, down the stairs, along
another corridor, down another flight of stairs and through the Main Hall to
another corridor, comes the sound of three hens arguing with an egomaniac.
‘But the light’s all wrong!’ says Kenneth the Phantomime.
‘I’m telling you, it’s too DULL in here. How am I supposed to exude the light
of God’s Representative on Earth in all this gloom and shadow?’
‘Who?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I thought he was impersonating
King Charles. Who’s this God’s Representative person?’
‘That IS King Charles,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘and when I have a
few spare hours I’ll explain the divine theory to you. But for now, it is more
important to concentrate on getting this room decorated before the BBC turn
up…’
‘But the LIGHT!’ wails Kenneth.
‘The BBC will be bringing their own lights,’ snaps Mrs
Miggins. ‘For goodness’ sake, you’re not being very co-operative.’
‘I’m a star,’ says Kenneth, imperiously. ‘It’s not in my
bones to be co-operative.’
Mrs Miggins glowers at him. ‘King Charles is VERY
co-operative,’ she says. ‘I thought you were supposed to be practising your
method acting.’
The Phantomime huffs, turns his back and marches to the
window.
Mrs Miggins breathes out. ‘Now,’ she says, having regained
control of the situation, ‘the BBC will be here tomorrow to set up their
cameras, whatnots and doo-dahs, and it is our job to make this room look
tasteful, regal, and festive.’
‘No strings of luminous green lobsters in tiaras and tutus,
then?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Absolutely not,’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Pity,’ sighs Mrs Pumphrey. ‘They’re all the rage this
season.’
‘We’re not here to be fashionable,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘We
are here to be understated and tasteful.’
Mrs Slocombe steps forward. ‘Don’t worry, Laetitia,’ she
says, ‘I’ll make sure Mrs P doesn’t go rogue. Why don’t I stay and supervise
whilst you go and have a nice cup of tea?
Mrs Miggins consults her spreadsheet. ‘I suppose I could
start organising the Not Forgotten Festive Party,’ she says.
‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘And I ought to go and check on Mrs Poo,’ says Miggins.
‘Those cards need to go off tomorrow morning.’
‘Don’t you worry about Poo,’ says Mrs Slocombe, airily and
crossing her wing tips behind her back. ‘She’ll be fine.’
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