The Dawn of a New Era

I have been summoned by the hens to Cluckingham Palace for a conference. This is an inconvenience to me because for the past hour and a half I have been embroiled in a battle with Google trying to convince them that I do exist and  I am who I say I am and it is they who are being awkward and not me, despite my own previous and extensive history of awkwardness.

Cluckingham Palace is situated at the top end of the grounds of Much Malarkey Manor and is full of various hens in a variety of forms, namely 1)alive and kicking and 2)the equally lively and kicking spirits of Hens That Have Gone Before. It is useful to have spirit hens available for the purpose of the annual Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story, but for the rest of the year they are a right royal pain in the Harris tweed. I sigh, then, when the voice of Mrs Miggins comes floating through the ether via the two tin cans and bit of string contraption she has strung up because she doesn't believe in the land line telephone, let alone mobiles which, she insists, are well documented for frying your brains cells off at an alarming rate.

'We need to see you immediately,' she informs me, when I walk up the garden to see what is occurring because all I am getting from my tin can is a load of tugging and the distant sound of Mrs Poo on her megaphone (the one she takes on Left-Wing rallies) shouting, 'She won't hear you on THAT, Laetitia. What you need is a MEGAPHONE!'

'And here I am,' I say.

Mrs Miggins glares triumphantly at Mrs Poo. 'You see,' she says. 'She heard me well enough without all the shouting.'

'Coincidence,' retorts Mrs Poo. 'Pure coincidence.'

'Well,' I say, 'regardless of how I got here, I am here. Now, what do you want? I am rather busy as it happens.'

'We need to have a conference,' says Mrs Miggins. 'About the Manor.'

'What about the Manor?' I say.

'I said, a conference,' says Miggins. 'One does not hold a conference on one's doorstep. One holds a conference in a conference room with interactive whiteboards, flip charts, laser pointers and a selection of Danish pastries and decaff coffee. And an agenda. And standing on the doorstep is definitely not on my agenda. Please,' she continues, 'do come in.'

I enter the small hall of Cluckingham Palace. I have to point out at this point that the word 'palace' is an exaggeration because it is actually a small summer house where the hens choose to hide away when they are up to something, usually nefarious. Anyway, in I go and am immediately accosted by Mrs Slocombe. 'Your conference badge,' she says, attaching to my person an oblong piece of cardboard with the word 'DELIGAT' printed in orange crayon. 'Please sign in,' she says, pointing at her clipboard upon which is a piece of paper. I can see already the other hens have signed in - Mrs Bennet, Mrs Miggins, Mrs Slocombe, Mrs Pumphrey, Mrs Poo, Primrose, Daisy, Camilla, Nora, Nancy and Nellie. My immediate thought is that I stand no chance against eleven hens.

In the main room, okay, the only room of the summer house the hens are sitting around an oval table chatting excitedly which immediately raises my suspicion. It is possible there had been a pile of Danish pastries on offer but now there are only crumbs and a lone chocolate chip which hints at the once presence of a pain au chocolate. Mrs Pumphrey is bouncing up and down on her chair, hinting at the fact she has smuggled in full strength coffee. She has the decency to shoot me a look of guilt - she knows I have expressly forbidden her to drink proper coffee for reasons I am too embarrassed to regale now.

I sit in the one remaining chair. On the table in front of me there is an agenda. Under the heading 'Apologies' it reads, 'Never apologise for anything.' Under the heading 'Business' it reads, '1)The future of Much Malarkey Manor. 2) There is no other business.'

'Well,' I say, leaning back. 'This is at least going to be succinct.'

Mrs Miggins is sitting at the top of the table. She bangs a gavel. 'ORDER!' she shouts. And, to my surprise, because I've never been able to do it, she brings the whole table of clucking hens to silence.

'We are hear today to discuss plans for the future of Much Malarkey Manor,' she begins. 'As you know the Manor is approaching its 10th birthday...'

At this point the hens erupt into cheers, whoops and stomping of  feet. Mrs Miggins bangs her gavel.

'And we feel it is time to move on with the future of the Manor, to bring it up-to-date, make it more fitting and relevant to the 21st century,' she continues. And then she gives me a bit of a look. A look which sends an uneasy chill up my spine. (Down my spine? Which way exactly does a chill run?)

'I have a sense of foreboding,' I say.

'Hmmm...' says Mrs Miggins. 'More a sense of aboding, I'd say.'

'Aboding?' I say.

'Yes,' says Miggins. 'In that you are going to be re-aboded. From the Manor. Into something more...er...suitable for your ageing personage...'

'My WHAT??' I say, nay splutter.

'We just feel,' says Mrs Miggins, 'that the running of the Manor should pass into the wings, I mean, hands of someone younger, more vibrant, more in the know of contemporary modes and trends...'

'Don't give me all that,' I say, rising to my feet. 'I have managed the Manor perfectly well all these years...'

'We don't doubt that,' says Miggins. 'And you shall continue to input into the running of the Manor in your own quaint and increasingly senile way but...'

'Senile??? Most of you are DEAD!' I say.

'That,' says Mrs Miggins, frostily, 'is neither here nor there. Anyway, we've had a vote and the result is 11 against 1, you lose. Mrs Pumphrey, please escort Lady Malarkey to her new abode. Conference closed. Thank you for attending. Everyone to the Ballcock and Plunger for pina coladas at noon.'

And that, dear readers, is how I find myself ensconced in a small cottage on the Much Malarkey Manor estate. It is called Damson Cottage and is, I admit, perfectly delightful if in need of some decorating. On the way, Mrs Pumphrey suggests I could write about my adventures there. 'You could call it Damson Cottage Capers,' she says.

'A caper is an edible flower bud the size of a peppercorn,' I say. Which is about how small I feel.

'Really?' says Mrs Pumphrey, pausing at the door of Damson Cottage. 'I thought it was a type of sausage.'

'Hardly suitable for a vegetarian person, then,' I point out.

'I suppose not,' says Pumphrey. 'Are you coming for pina coladas?'

'Probably not,' I say.