‘Look,’ says Mrs Poo, all Tony-Blair like, passive aggressive in the style of Lucifer after his Fall from Grace. ‘None of us believe in Father Christmas, right? We all know he is a tale, a fiction, something to tell small children as part of the so-called magic of Christmas. Like eating brussel sprouts will give you curly feathers. But you grow up, don’t you? You reach a certain age and you realise that the whole Father Christmas thing isn’t real. You become capable of thinking in terms of reason and logic. How can one person, and an old and fat one at that, deliver Christmas gifts to every chick in the world in the space of twenty four hours? It just isn’t doable, is it?’
Inspector Spectre shrugs. ‘I don’t know, Mrs Poo,’ he says, in what he hopes is an enigmatic yet at the same time authoritative manner. ‘You tell me. You seem to be the one having Father Christmas issues.’
He looks across at Mrs Miggins who is still standing next to the drinks cabinet quaffing her way efficiently through the bottle of 7Up. ‘I say,’ he says, ‘I don’t suppose there is any chance of a drink, is there? It’s thirsty work, this detectoring business.’
‘No,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Not a snowball’s. Carry on, Mrs Poo.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Miggins,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘And even though you, as an adult hen, understand the myth of Father Christmas, you perpetuate it for the sake of the chicks who still believe in magic. That’s how it works. And not only with Father Christmas, either. We do the same thing with the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and the Washing Machine Gremlin.’
‘The Washing Machine Gremlin?’ says Inspector Spectre. This is a new one to him. He sends all his laundry to his mother. And sometimes she sends it back clean. But not often.
‘Yes,’ says Mrs Poo, impatiently. ‘You know, when the washing machine stops working mid-cycle and you have to prise open the door with a crowbar and bail out the sodden contents. And you say, “Oh, it’s that Washing Machine Gremlin.” When, in fact, we all know it’s because SOMEONE has overloaded the machine with bath towels and corduroy dungarees AGAIN and the drum can’t cope with the weight when it spins. Throws out the bearings. Thump, thump, THUMP!’
And she stares pointedly at Mrs Miggins who looks away and finds the painting ‘Some Fruit and a Space Hopper’ by Van Winkleman that is situated above the drinks cabinet suddenly very fascinating.
Inspector Spectre, having been denied a drink and therefore deciding to wind up this gig as soon as possible so he can go and crack open the bottle of Advocaat he buys in especially for Christmas, paces the dining room a bit.
‘Can I surmise, Mrs Poo, from the bitter tone in your voice that you had a disappointing Christmas experience as a chick that has left you in the miserable state commonly known as “Bah Humbug?”’ He executes a dramatic spin, becomes entangled in his cloak and makes a flawless face plant into the Persian rug in front of the fire place.
‘I meant to do that!’ he says, leaping up and rearranging his dishevelment.
The hens are supressing giggles of hilarity. Mrs Miggins manages to snork 7Up through her nostrils, which sets the others off even more. Inspector Spectre huffs and glowers. The hens hush their beaks.
‘You can surmise all you like, Inspectre Spectre,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘All I am saying is that I don’t think it is fair to imply the truth of Father Christmas to chicks only to then cruelly shatter their dreams and belief in magic. It can do an enormous amount of psychological damage, you know. We should be honest and say, ‘It’s your parents who leave all those presents, you know. Not some jolly and beneficent chap in a fur trimmed cloak and sooty boots who leaves a mess all over the carpet and demolishes your entire supply of mince pies and sherry. You parents, you silly naïve chick, who work hard all year to give you a happy time at Christmas…’
‘AHA!!’ shouts Inspector Spectre, making everyone, including himself, jump out of their Christmas party outfits. He points a finger at Mrs Poo, who resists the urge to give it a jolly good pecking with her quivering beak. Her eyes carry a suggestion of tear drop as the memory from a Christmas far gone surfaces, along with the raw edge of feeling that she experienced when she heard her parents declare the non-existence of Father Christmas and, in doing so, making her recognise her own stupidity in believing in the whole magical myth in the first place.
‘It’s you!’ continues Inspector Spectre. ‘You are the murderer, Mrs Poo! You killed Father Christmas!’
Mrs Poo promptly bursts into uncharacteristic tears. Mrs Miggins rushes to comfort her friend, flinging the remains of her 7Up at Inspector Spectre (accidentally or not, we shall never know) and Mrs Slocombe comes over all Jeeves and Wooster with a cry of, ‘I say, old chap! That’s not cricket!’
At this moment of high drama, the dining room door swings open. Mrs Pumphrey appears, followed by Ptolemy Pheasant. They take in the scene of emotional chaos before them.
‘Have we missed something?’ says Mrs Pumphrey.
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