A Right Royal Decamp!

 

It is 1^st December…

(N.B The Lady Author KNOWS it is 5^th December, in real time, but in fiction story time it is only 1^st December. You’ll have to bear with the vagaries of the space time continuum this year – goodness knows the Lady Author has been confused enough in the writing of this year’s story without the dear Reader(s) getting all picky about details regarding calendar anomalies. One day might not equal one actual day, okay? It might equal three days or it might equal a few hours. Maths is weird like that. Just go with the flow, if you’d be so kind. Thank you.)

…and every sane person knows that Christmas is not allowed to begin to even sniff at Winter’s door until 1^st December, and even then, there are some folks who think even that is too soon, the Lady Author being one of them. Anyway, at 7 a.m, when the sun is still sensibly asleep beneath the horizon, a couple of large Range Rovers arrive at Much Malarkey Manor to commence Operation O.R.C (Organising Royal Christmas) – and ferry our gallant band of four lady hens plus one egomaniac to London, to take up residence in Buckingham Palace.

‘It’s all very exciting,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who has been persuaded that ten hat boxes are really too many and she can jolly well make do with three. ‘Although I shall miss having our traditional Christmas here at the Manor.’

‘I shan’t,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘It will be a blessed relief, for once, not to have to get up at 4.30 a.m to lever an enormous stuffed badger into the Aga.’

‘Shall you be in charge of cooking at the Palace?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, because the other thing she’ll miss about being away from home is Mrs Slocombe’s cooking. 

‘I jolly well hope not,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘I have deliberately not packed my apron, oven gloves or lemon squeezer.’

‘According to the list King Charles gave us,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘you’ll be in a supervisory capacity in the Palace kitchens. Over-seeing puddings, organising menus. Stuff like that.’

‘Well, that I can cope with,’ says Mrs Slocombe, settling into the plush leather upholstery of the Range Rover. ‘Oooh, I say!’ she suddenly squeals. ‘Heated seats!’

And so, our hen party sets off for London, leaving behind the peace and calm of their beloved countryside home. Reluctantly, Mrs Miggins has agreed that Nell the Poo and Ptolemy Pheasant can hold the fort at the Manor. Nell the Poo has promised that she will definitely NOT immediately invite all her cockapoo chums around for a sleepover and they will definitely NOT wreak havoc by eating rugs, destroying footstools, and stealing sausages and cheese from the pantry in order to make extravagant fondues. And Ptolemy Pheasant has also promised that he will definitely NOT turn the Manor ballroom into an exclusive Gentlemen’s Club called ‘Ruffle Da Featha’s’ and fill it with louche characters from the game bird fraternity. Mrs Miggins doesn’t trust either of their promises one single jot and has taken out supplementary insurance cover as a precaution.  

At first, the traveling party of Missus Miggins, Pumphrey, Slocombe and Poo, along with Kenneth the Phantomime, continues to exude an air of longing that they won’t be home for Christmas but this longing is soon superseded when they discover the Range Rover glove boxes are full of exciting things which are definitely not gloves.

‘Ooooh, I say!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Look! Royal travel socks! They’ve got tiny insignias embroidered on them.’

‘And there’s a little hamper here,’ says Mrs Slocombe, who is her travelling companion. ‘A manicure set, a deck of playing cards, some Dubonnet-in-a-tin, a soap on a rope in the shape of a thistle, and a packet of Kendal Mint Cake.’

‘Is it going to take THAT long to reach London?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I’d have packed my ear buds so I could listen to an audio book if I’d known.’

‘I jolly well hope not,’ says Mrs Slocombe, who thinks one must have to have reached the utter depths of desperation to even think about eating Kendal Mint Cake. ‘We should be there in an hour and a half, tops.’

Mrs Pumphrey sighs with relief. ‘Just long enough for a game or two of I-Spy and Spot the Eddie Stobart Lorry, then,’ she says, settling back to enjoy the journey.

In the second Range Rover, Mrs Miggins is riding shotgun next to the Royal chauffeur. She is engrossed in the ‘to do’ list given to her by King Charles and is busily tapping away at the spreadsheet on her laptop. Kenneth is sitting in the back with Mrs Poo, practising his Royal wave. He is also very curious to know more about Mrs Poo’s royal hen ancestry. And a little bit jealous of her prestigious connections, especially when his explorations of his own family heritage showed his ancestors were mostly a bunch of toolmakers.

‘But you must know something about it?’ he says. ‘Surely someone in your family knew the story of your great-great-whatever grandmother being the favourite war-time hen of Princess Elizabeth?’

‘The first I knew about it was yesterday,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘It was as much of a shock to me as everyone else.’

She is still in a quandary about how she feels about her unexpected Royal connections. Something about it is causing an unfamiliar thrill in her heart. And she still isn’t sure about this whole running the Royal Christmas malarkey. It is causing a serious moral and ethical conflict in her chicken brain. Should she be newly loyal to the memory of her great-great-great grandhen’s Royal service, or should she continue with her life-long goal of taking down the Establishment and supporting the growth of a socialist society where everyone is equal? What a quandary. What a dil-hen-ma.