Mrs Poo is the last to leave the breakfast table and not
because some of her feathers had welded themselves to the table with maple
syrup. She had wanted the others to be caught up with the recording of the
Christmas Speech so she could head off in peace and quiet to find her
great-great-great grandhen, the Duchess Yekaterina. Soon, though, she is at the
door of the Arts and Crafts Room, and from within she can hear noises which
sound like a steam train coming into a siding. She gives a tentative knock on
the door.
‘Who is zis?’ comes the familiar voice of the Duchess Yekaterina.
‘It’s me – your great-great-great grand henchick, Olga Maria
Svetlana Osterick de Polovitska,’ says Mrs Poo.
‘Zen enter vizin, and wonder at ze miracle before you!’
comes the reply.
(N.B The Lady Author knows that the other hens are called
Laetitia, Betty and Gloria In Excelsis Deo, but do you think she can remember
the first name of Mrs Poo? The original and real Mrs Poo, on whom the fictional
character is based, didn’t have a first name on account of her being the least
likeable of all the ‘real’ hens, given she would go for your ankles with
sometimes bloody consequences at every given opportunity. But the Lady Author is
sure she bestowed upon her fictional namesake a first name. Blowed if she can
remember though. The above name, then, is what first came into her head just
now. Which says a lot about her current state of mind…)
Tentatively, Mrs Poo pushes open the door. And there,
glowing faintly with a fuzzy blue light, are piles and piles and piles of
neatly stacked crisp white envelopes.
‘Sixty-nine million, one hundred and thirty-eight thousand,
one hundred and ninety-two Christmas cards, one for every person in the United
Kingdom,’ says the Grand Duchess Yekaterina, proudly.
‘Wow!’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Why are they glowing?’
‘Iz the magic,’ says the Grand Duchess. ‘Each card vill find
its vay to its correct recipient wizin the next twenty-four hours. Ov course,
some recipients vill die, some vill be born but ze kikimoras vill make ze
relevant adjustments. Zay are very good at zat sort of admin.’
The kikimoras giggle and nod.
‘The post office vans are arriving to collect the cards
soon,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘It will save you the trouble of the, er, magic stuff.’
‘HA!’ says the Grand Duchess. ‘You are crazy in ze head,
like a bat on ketamine. Your Post Office vill still be delivering zees cards in
ten years’ time. No, best to use magic. Always to use magic. People should
trust magic more. It vould make zeir lives so much easier and ‘appier.’
The Grand Duchess Yekaterina raises her hands. And as she
does so, the piles of cards begin to shimmer and shuffle, and then they rise
into the air and, to the sound of popping bubbles, they disappear, one-by-one.
‘Where are they?’ says Mrs Poo, transfixed by what she is
seeing.
‘Why, zay are being delivered ov course,’ says the Grand
Duchess. ‘Easy peasy lemon meringue pie squeezy, is what I zink you British are
saying.’
‘Wow again,’ says Mrs Poo.
‘I know, I know,’ says the Grand Duchess, with a casual nod
of her head. ‘I try to tell ze boss ov ze Royal Mail that zis delivery method
iz ze way to go, but vould he listen? No, he vould not, because he iz a business
man and has ze brain of a constipated jellyfish. But vot ca you do? Stupidity
triumphs over economy. I give up.’
And she shrugs. ‘Now zen, vot iz happening in my beloved
Palace?’
‘The King’s Christmas Day Message is being recorded today,’
says Mrs Poo.
‘Zen you had better get along,’ says the Grand Duchess. ‘It iz
an important event and for every important event, it iz alvays better to have a
Poo.’
Back in the drawing room, Missus Miggins, Slocombe and
Pumphrey are standing, open-beaked in awe, at the Artificial Impersonator that
is Kenneth the Phantomime.
‘You really can’t tell the difference, can you?’ whispers
Mrs Pumphrey.
‘He’s very impressive,’ agrees Mrs Slocombe. ‘That might as
well be King Charles himself standing there.’
Even Mrs Miggins agrees. ‘I didn’t think he would be
convincing enough, but he is, isn’t he?’ she says.
The Phantomime is enjoying every second of his performance
as King Charles. He is charming the BBC crew and following direction like a
true professional.
‘And now,’ says Anna, having made a few practice recordings,
reviewed them and decided that everything is perfect, ‘I want to introduce une
fresh twist for 2024. Please meet your supporting cast – Pére et Mére Noel! Or,
as you call them ‘ere in the United Kingdom – Father and Mrs Christmas!’
And through the doors of the drawing room walk two round and
cheery characters dressed in red suits trimmed in white fur, carrying a large
sack between them. Jingle bells ring cheerily from their hats, and they wave a
happy greeting to the assembled group.
‘HO, HO, HO – Merry Christmas!’ says Father Christmas.
‘And a Happy New Year!’ adds Mrs Christmas.
‘Well, this is different,’ says Mrs Slocombe.
The King Phantomime greets the newcomers regally and
royally. ‘But I do say,’ he says, ‘that I’m not sure this is wholly in keeping
with my usual style of delivery. Don’t you think it’s a bit, well,
too…er…commercial?’
‘Nonsense, Your Majesty!’ says Anna. ‘It is just the thing
you need to bring your Royal Family into the twenty-first century. ‘Ow excited
les enfants will be to see Father Christmas by the side of their King! ‘Ow
cheery and relaxed will be l’atmosphere. Is the perfect addition to our
recording. Trust moi,’ she finishes, her right eye twitching imperceptibly.
‘Oh well,’ says the Phantomime King, ‘if you think so.’
‘Mais oui, I do,’ says Mademoiselle Anna Kissed. ‘Now, if
you would just like to take a seat next to your desk, Sir, we’ll ‘ave Father
and Mrs Christmas standing just behind you, next to this beautiful Christmas
Tree…’
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