After the excitement of the previous day’s journey and
arrival at the Palace, the hens and Kenneth are having breakfast in the semi-formal
breakfast salon of Buckingham Palace on the 2nd day of December.
‘Did everyone settle into their rooms alright?’ says Mrs
Slocombe, who will forever live in ‘keeping the guests happy’ mode.
‘Oh, yes!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. This experience is like a
dream come true for her. ‘I especially like that we have our own personal
butler. Mine is called Lawrence and he has a very pert manner.’
‘Mine is called Eduardo and he has a very pert bot…’ begins
Mrs Slocombe, giggling.
‘None of that, Betty Slocombe!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘The inappropriate
objectification of our fellow human being, male or female or anywhere else on
the gender spectrum, is no longer acceptable in modern-day society.’
‘But we are hens,’ Mrs Slocombe protests. ‘Since when have
we ever obeyed human rules?’
‘When have we ever obeyed hen rules, come to that?’ says Mrs
Pumphrey, and she and Mrs Slocombe collapse into fits of the giggles over the
buttered crumpets.
Mrs Poo rolls her eyes. She, too, has a butler, but can’t
bring herself to ask anything of him even though he has assured her is not one
of the oppressed masses. She chooses not to comment, instead helping herself to
a bowl of porridge and some grapefruit segments. The others follow suit and
soon the breakfast salon relaxes into a convivial atmosphere with everyone
enjoying a jolly good breakfast that they haven’t had to prepare themselves.
‘Today,’ says Mrs Miggins, once everyone is replete and sipping cups of tea or coffee, ‘we need to send Christmas cards.’
‘I love writing Christmas cards!’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I like
to spend time writing a little catch-up letter in each one.’
‘Oooh, not one of those round robin things,’ says Mrs Poo,
shuddering. ‘I hate those. I have no interest at all in knowing that cousin
Gertrude had her haemorrhoids shrunk by laser, nor that Uncle Gary has taken up
grey-hound racing and had a win with his dog, ‘Milk But No Sugar.’
Kenneth the Phantomime, who is contemplating a fifth slice
of toast with Duchy Original Marmalade interrupts. ‘My friend, Cosmo, sends a
round robin every year with his Christmas card,’ he says. ‘For someone who
claims to be agoraphobic, he achieves a huge amount.’
‘He’s frightened of rabbits and goats?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘Agora, not angora,’ says Kenneth. ‘The year before last he
went to Tibet, Croatia and Cleethorpes, learnt how to paddle a coracle and took
part in the Upper Diddlingham Bog Snorkelling Championships where he came
third. He said he would have won if someone hadn’t tampered with his snorkel by
filling it with couscous.’
‘We don’t need to write a round robin,’ says Mrs Miggins,
tapping her pen testily on the table. ‘Just sign the cards, put them in
envelopes, address them with the pre-printed address labels already provided,
pop ‘em through the Royal franking machine, and give them to the collection van
to take to the sorting office tomorrow.’
‘Simple!’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘We can have that done by
elevenses. How many are there to write?’
‘Eight hundred and fifty,’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘What??’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘850,’ says Mrs Miggins, thinking Mrs Slocombe might hear
numerals better than long-hand. ‘That’s what it says on the list.’
‘Nobody knows eight hundred and fifty people to send cards
to at Christmas,’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
‘We’re not talking about ordinary people here,’ says Mrs
Miggins. ‘The King and Queen have to recognise all the various heads of state,
the leaders of countries, the military, charity leaders, and other official world figures, as
well as personal friends and family.’
Mrs Poo has been listening to the conversation and quietly
making notes on a starched napkin. ‘It seems very undemocratic that only the
rich, famous and those in power receive a Royal Christmas card,’ she says.
‘What about the ordinary people of this land? The workers, the pensioners, the
children. Do they get Royal Christmas cards?’
Mrs Miggins shakes her head. ‘It would be too enormous a
task to send cards to almost 70 million people,’ she says. ‘And think of the
postage!’
(N.B For those of you outside the United Kingdom, a few
weeks ago the Royal Mail decided to increase the cost of a First Class postage
stamp to £1.65. They did this, they said, to recoup decreasing revenue because
of the falling number of letters that are sent through the postal system. So,
let’s make it more expensive to send something through the post because that’ll
encourage people to use it more. Won’t it? Eh? Seriously…the world is going
mad…sigh…)
Mrs Poo is tapping her napkin thoughtfully with her pen.
‘But it would be nice, wouldn’t it, to send a card to everyone?’ she says.
‘It would,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘But, for the purpose of
getting the job done this year, we need to stick to eight hundred and fifty which
will be challenge enough.’
Mrs Poo nods. She is looking increasingly like a hen who has
a cunning plan hatching in her brain. ‘I’ll be happy to manage this project,’
she says.
‘I think we all should do it,’ says Miggins. ‘Many wings
make light work, as they say.’
Mrs Poo fixes Mrs Miggins with a stare that could freeze
water. ‘It’s just that I have an IDEA and I would like to work on it ALONE,’
she says.
Mrs Miggins, who is not given to fancy reactions like
shuddering, shudders. Mrs Poo does not dish out fixed stares often or lightly;
she is more likely to deal with a contretemps using a mix of bribery, blackmail
and physical threat involving a mallet.
‘Very well,’ sighs Mrs Miggins. ‘But if you need ANY help at
all, if you don’t think you’ll complete the task by the time the post van
arrives tomorrow morning, then you are to tell us IMMEDIATELY. Yes??’
Mrs Poo agrees. ‘Abso-positive-lutely,’ she says. ‘But trust
me – I know what I am doing.’
And off she strides into the endless corridors of Buckingham
Palace, taking a door to the right, and then immediately re-emerging because
the door to the right turns out to be a cupboard containing cleaning materials.
‘I needed a bucket!’ she shouts over her shoulder as she
marches away, the edge in her voice daring anyone to utter not even a titter.
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