Into Granny's Subconscious

Inside Granny Were's subconscious...

Twasn’t brillig – it didn’t dare. And the slithy toves weren’t gyring or gimbling. Not if they knew what was good for them. As for the borogoves and the mome raths, they were sitting under the Tumtum tree, sipping cups of Earl Grey and having a quiet game of rummy. And the Jabberwock? Well he was perched on a rock in the sun giving his claws a particularly focused and fastidious manicure. Broken strains of Moon River drifted through the wood as he whistled toothily to himself.
In the background Alph the sacred river was running away faster than any river had the right to do and was flinging itself over the cliff - quite happy to smash itself on the rocks of very sunny sea far below. As for Kubla Khan, he’d clearly got word and had buggered off long ago.
Somewhere on the path leading to the stately pleasure dome, the Jean Genie was practicing yoga. Nothing at all outrageous, you understand, and definitely no screaming or bawling. On the steps of the dome Ziggy Stardust had all the spiders from Mars on a leash and was humming a lullaby to them while they practiced their knitting.
This, I have to tell you, in case you’re wondering, is what it’s like in Granny Were’s subconscious. Even her nightmares are so frightened of her that they behave well. There isn’t a hint of a whinny and definitely no bucking or wild, untamed rearing. Who’d have thought it, right? You’d have expected a werechicken to have violent dreams. But oh no.

You’re wondering, I can tell, what on earth I’m doing in Granny’s subconscious in the first place. To be honest, I’m not really sure.
See, the thing is, as you’ve probably noticed, I’ve not heard from the Hens in a while. I might even be pushed so far as to admit that I was getting a little worried - and missing them.
And then Granny turned up.

Note to self: remember to keep mind fully sealed when thinking about the Hens – it’s not like they really need the encouragement.

She’d nicked a spacepod from High Command and come whizzing through the singularity in time and space and landed, with an almighty splash in the swimming pool - of course - leaving the neighbour’s washing (and dog) well-soaked.
“Darling girl!” she squawked, flinging yellow tipped wings around me. “How are you! So delighted to hear you’ve been missing us.”
“I wasn’t really -” I started to say and thought better of it. “Where’s Atyllah?”
“Oh,” said Granny waving a claw, “she’s off in the Pleiadean system gathering meteors. We use them, you know, in our heat reactor – to keep the Novapulse temperature nice and temperate – none of this climate nonsense for us.”
It was some time later, while sipping hot chocolate and nibbling on mopani worm crisps that Granny suggested I might like to get to know her a little better. It was, she assured me, a genuine gesture of interspecies and intergalactic goodwill.
Right now, as I dust Jubjub bird pooh off my shoulders and find myself reading a bedtime story, called the Velvet Goldmine to the bandersnatch, I’m really not so sure about all that interspecies goodwill.
For one thing. I have utterly no idea how I’m going to get out of Granny’s head.
(Mind you, I’ll say this: it makes a change from having her and Atyllah in my head...)

The Chickens Have Landed - Part Three

The Chickens Have Landed - Part One
The Chickens Have Landed - Part Two


“And then there was that other friend, wasn’t there,” says Atyllah, egging me on.
“Yes,” I say. “I only sent him an email requesting that he issue D with a letter of invitation about five weeks ago.”
“Whatcha need a letter of invitation for if he’s a friend?” asks Granny looking puzzled.
She’s never quite got the hang of human bureaucracy. Mind you, I can’t say I have either.
“D needs a visa. Because we’re staying with a friend, the friend has to issue a written invitation so the authorities know we’re not refugees or state freeloaders.”
Granny considers this for a moment. “Nope, still don’t get it.”
“Don’t worry about it Granny, most don’t, it’s human stuff,” remarks Atyllah.
“Ah,” says Granny, “well that’s all right then. Their stuff has never made sense. I still can’t get my head around all this division humans are so incredibly intent upon.”
“No, me neither.”
“Frankly, they’re a disgrace to the oneness of the multiverse,” mutters Granny as her eyes redden.
“That’s what Aunt Aggie always used to say,” replies Atyllah.

Great Aunt Aggie, Philosopher Chicken, now with the Andromedans manifesting multiversal peace

“Shall I carry on?” I ask. “If you’re sure you’re quite finished.”
“Of course, of course, you carry on, dear,” says Granny pouncing on an unfortunate bug that had been minding its own business on the daisy bush.
“Well,” I say, “after four weeks no invitation was forthcoming and we were running out of time to apply for the visa. I emailed him again – and again – and again… Eventually he said it was too complicated… I mean I ask you, what is it with men?”
“Human men,” corrects Atyllah.
“Yes, well, them too,” I mutter.
“I can’t stand the suspense,” squawks Granny, “did you get the vista or not?”
“The visa,” I say, “I don’t know. We did finally get the invitation, after a considerable amount of stress. Whether we get the visa on time remains to be seen. We may yet be staying home and missing our holiday. You know, I really-really-really don’t need stress like this – not after everything went tits up with the other friend. Did I mention how much extra that has cost us? Did I?”
“Um, well I did spot the figure in your brain. You haven’t thought of, you know, doing that thing the Americans so love to do – what’s it called now…? Sewing her.”
“Ooh,” crows Granny, “you mean like stitching her up - like that Frankestein fellow.”
“No,” I say, rolling my eyes, “I think she means mean suing.”
“Yes! That’s it! You haven’t though of suing her, have you?” asks Atyllah. “I gather she is extraordinarily wealthy…”
“No, but I did withdraw all offers of friendship. I’ve decided that loyalty is vastly overrated.”
“Oh I could have told you that if you’d but asked. It’s really not a quality suited to the current state of human evolution,” says Atyllah. “And besides, there is nothing quite so callous as the super rich. We see it all the time with the Arcturean nobility. Think they’re gods – or something.”
“More like something – from the depths of the henpost heap,” mutters Granny and then pats my knee with a knobbly claw. “Don’t worry, darling, you can always come back to Novapulse with us for a nice little break. We love to have you…”
“Thank you, Granny,” I say weakly. Somehow, and with full respect (I’d be mad to have anything less) the idea of three weeks living amongst chickens who are human sized just doesn’t appeal.
“And then, what was the other thing?” asks Atyllah.
“I don’t know why you keep asking me when you already know.”
“Ah yes, the other was the administrative bit of financial bungling caused by bank officials which may well cost you a few thousand pua shells.”
I grunt and notice that my heart rate is doing a jitterbug jive without the benefit of a tune. I can feel the steam building up in my ears and my foot starts to tap the floor in an uncontrollable way.
“Well, I think we arrived just in time!” announces Granny. “I can see my little cupcake here has been well and truly upset and that Does Not Please Me.”
She quivers and a strange sound starts to build up. It seems to begin near her knees. It travels upwards and issues from her beak as cacophony best described as a howling screech.
OMG! Granny is going Were! And it’s not yet full moon.
Oh dear. It truly doesn’t do to anger the old bird anywhere around full lunar manifestation.
I watch in alarm has her talons start to extend. Her eyes develop a maniacal gleam, her beak sharpens to a razor-sharp point and thick clumps of fur start to sprout between her toes.
“Let me at the bastards,” she screeches.
“BAHOWOOOOOKAAAAAOOOOOOWWWWL!”
I stuff my fingers in my ears and grin quietly behind my scarf. Frankly, I am delighted the chickens are here.
“See, I knew you would be,” says Atyllah smugly.

Granny Were starts to go were...

The Chickens have Landed - Part Two

Atyllah the Hen...

The Chickens Have Landed - Part One


“So,” says Atyllah the Hen slurping through a straw at her mopani worm juice, “do you want to tell us about it?”
“What’s the point,” I mutter, “You already know. I can feel your mind creeping about my thoughts like a ravenous, oversized mealworm.”
“I’ll ignore that reference,” says Atyllah.
“Ooh, mealworms, did you say mealworms?!” cries Granny Were excitedly. “Oh I don’t suppose you have any?”
“Out in the garage,” I say, “In the aquarium. Left over from Ms Bo’s days.”
“Hmm,” mutters Atyllah, her tone as dark as a storm cloud whose thunder’s been stolen. “I heard about that. I always said no good would come of your playing at Mother Fowl. Or is that foul?” she murmurs sotto voce.
“Listen here,” I protest.
“Ptchah!” snorts Atyllah and little flecks of mopani worm juice create an unattractive speckling on the fabric of the sofa. “So, this trouble you’ve been having… You do know,” she says giving me the kind of thoughtful look that would make lesser beings crumble to dust, “don’t you, that your infuriation has been radiating across the multiverse like a star going supernova on a clear night. I’m surprised the Alpha Vampirieans haven’t been here yet to leech all that juicy red hot energy from you.”
“The Alpha Vampirieans? Who the hell are they?”
“Ah, yes, hell indeed, but perhaps the less said the better. I wouldn’t want to give you nightmares, think how my own beauty sleep might be disrupted. Let’s just say they materialized 240 degrees off the west front of the Gamma Quadrant, and have been making um… food along the way.”
I consider her words for a moment and feel beads of icy sweat prickle on the back of my neck. Alpha Vampirieans…
“Yes, that’s right,” says Atyllah, “The general idea forming in that pea brain of yours is about right.”
I do so resent the liberties the Chicken takes in infiltrating my thoughts – and categorizing my brain.
She smiles. “Don’t you just wish you were telepathic? Now, now, don’t lie…”
From the back yard I hear a contented belch. Clearly Granny has not only found the mealworms but has eaten the lot. Sigh.
“Now, about this trouble of yours, tell me all about it.”
“What’s the point, you know anyway or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, but you know that a problem shared is a problem halved.”
Oh the rhetoric!
“Sarcasm, my dear Vanilla, as you have so often told me, is not an enviable form of wit. But no matter, given your reluctance, shall I just list the annoyances of the last few weeks and we can form a plan of action from there.”
“Action? Did someone finally say action?” Granny flings herself upon the sofa and lets rip a fart of spectacular proportions. “Sorry,” she says fanning the fumes away, “it was the beans I found in your vegetable patch. They don’t seem to quite agree with me.”
FRRRRT!
“Perhaps we should sit outside,” I suggest as a noxious vapour threatens to overpower me.
We migrate to the patio and watch the space pod as it bobs, glinting like a pearlescent oyster, around the pool.
“Now, as I see it,” says Atyllah, “first there was that so-called friend of yours who decided she was swanning off to a spa for a month.”
“I don’t see any problem there,” said Granny frowning. “What’s wrong with going to a spa. Ooh, do you think she’d mind if I joined her.”
“Oh yes, please do,” I encourage. “I wouldn’t have minded at all,” I say turning to Atyllah, “were it not for the fact that we were going halfway across the world to visit and stay with her. I mean, it is a bit rude, don’t you think, having made all the arrangements, booked the flights, checked and double checked that our visit would not inconvenience her, for her to suddenly turn round and say, ‘oh, I probably won’t be here when you get here’. I mean, you know, WTF?”
“Yes, I see your point,” says Atyllah, preening an errant wing feather. “Not very nice.”
“No manners that,” snaps Granny, “No etiquette. Most inconsiderate.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I reply.
“Yes, I think perhaps I may well pay her a visit in that spa,” murmurs Granny, her eyes glinting in a way that has been known to make warrior Draconians tremble in their iron studded boots.

Granny Were...

TO BE CONTINUED…If the world survives.

The Chickens have Landed - Part One

An all too familiar screech ricochets through the fabric of time and space. It is accompanied by muffled cursing of the more fruity variety.
SPLASH!
Why the space pod, a translucently silver capsule, always lands in the swimming pool is beyond anyone of human persuasion.
“It’s because the garden is too densely treed to allow a safe landing on the lawn!” squawks an indignant voice.
As if anyone would dare call the pilot’s navigational skills into question.
“You do understand that, don’t you?” It’s the kind of voice that has an insistence about it that cuts through the skull-bone and penetrate directly into a mind – which is exactly what it is doing.
Telepathically projected it feels like sherbet of the brain. And it itches.
“To the rescue!” crows another voice. It has a rasping quality which is edged with a sort of lunatic peal. “Let me at ‘em!”
Anyone who knows and hazards a glance at the evening sky will cringe realizing it is nearly full moon…
“Help me out of this damned thing!” snaps the second voice. “And make sure I don’t get my feathers wet!”
“Granny,” clucks the first voice, “stop being such a drama queen. Ouch!”
Oh yes, gentle reader, the Chickens have landed. Gird your loins for the going the might get rough. And bloody.
“I don’t know why you bothered to hide.” Atyllah the Hen’s voice reverberates down the passage with foghorn intensity. “You know I know exactly where to find you.”
“Anyone would think she’d be pleased to see us,” mutters Granny Were. “Did you pack the corncakes, I’m feeling a bit peckish.”
‘Oh Vanill-aaaaaahhhh!” The tone can not be described as dulcet.
“OUCH! OW! STOP PECKING ME!”
“How many times must I tell you – you can run but you can’t hide. And anyway what kind of greeting is this? You with your head under the bed and your backside pointing skywards like some flat-barreled missile? You haven’t been at the beans, have you?” Atyllah asks suspiciously.
“Your trouble is you’re incorrigible,” I mutter backing out from under the bed in what can best be described as an inelegant manner.
“Darlingggggg,” crows Granny Were wrapping her wings around me.
ATISHOO!
Bloody chicken feathers.
“What – sniff – are you doing here?”
“Your woes are our woes,” says Atyllah in magnanimous tones.
“Ah, you mean Granny felt up for a fight.” The moon’s full-bodied roundness, like a good, wooded Chardonnay, has not escaped my attention. “Couldn’t she have picked on the Draconians? Or is it just that it’s our turn again?”
“Really,” remarks Atyllah as she studies her well-manicured talons, “anyone else would be grateful. A being could be quite insulted by your cavalier idea of a welcome, you know.” She shoots me a beady glance.
I stare at her – and remember to shut my mouth.
“Of course I’m delighted to see you…”
“Oh pull-lease! You were never any good at lying.”
I notice from the corner of my eye that Granny Were is bopping and bouncing like a boxer on cricket juice. “Let me at ‘em, yeah. A peck here, a kick there, a bite to the jugular. Hmm-mmm…”
I groan. It’s my own fault of course. I’m the first to acknowledge my own shortcomings and I hold myself entirely responsible. It’s my own inability to control the anger I’ve felt over the past few weeks as one level of incompetence, selfishness, thoughtlessness and stupidity has leaped to another – and led to the Chickens’ arrival. Actually, if truth be told, I’m secretly rather glad they are here. Sometimes A Chicken With Attitude is just what a girl needs.
“Of course you are,” says Atyllah.
“Of course she is,” echoes Granny Were and smiles. It is a smile which spreads across her beak and can best be described as gruesome. I mean have you ever really, really seen a were-chicken smile?

TO BE CONTINUED… if I survive.

Oh by the Great Corncob... Uninvited Houseguests!

Chicken with Attitude... and on a rescue mission. Oh boy...

I was gently swimming towards consciousness after a good night’s snooze when I heard a huge splash outside. Something had fallen in the pool. But it wasn’t a small something, like a squirrel, no this was much, much, much bigger. My heart quivered. I’d heard that kind of splash once before. It was the splash of something round and silver and about the size of a… well, the size of a Novapulsian spacepod. I knew, in the interest of intergalactic relations, I should get up and help but I couldn’t bear the thought. Instead I pulled the duvet over my head and pretended to be dead.
The front door opened, and someone clicked across the tiles and headed towards the bedroom.
“You can come out of there!” snapped a voice.
“I’m ill,” I muttered, “And it’s contagious.”
“Don’t lie to me, ever. You know I know when you’re telling porky pies!”
The duvet was unceremoniously yanked off my trembling form and I found myself staring into a pair of dark glinting eyes.
“The word is,” rasped the voice of Atyllah the Hen, Chicken with Attitude, dangerously close to my ear, “that you’ve kidnapped and are holding captive a young fowl. I don’t know what you were thinking Vanilla, but this is not acceptable. It contravenes every multiversal code we ever taught you. Shame on you!”
“I didn’t…” I began, and then realised that it depended entirely from which perspective you looked at Bo’s rescue. “Look,” I said trying again, “It’s not like that.”
“Oh really,” said Atyllah, “then explain to me how it is.”
Somewhere down at the other end of the house I heard a loud, PFRRRRT! The fruity smell of ancient beans drifted up the passage.
“Oh you didn’t!” I exclaimed.
“Couldn’t be helped,” said Atyllah, gazing at a well-manicured claw. “When she heard what you’d done, Granny Were insisted on coming along so she could help set things to rights.” She gave me a wily and knowing look down her beak and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“She’s not cross, is she?” I mumbled.
“What do you think?”
I groaned. “Honestly,” I said, “it’s really not how you think it is.”
“So you said, and I’m still waiting for the explanation.”
I heard the kitchen cupboards open and the sound of scuffling.
“She won’t find any beans or corn in there, you know,” I said.
“It’s not going to stop her from trying,” remarked Atyllah.
“I don’t suppose you brought Great-Aunt Aggie with you,” I asked hopefully, praying for some “balance”.
Atyllah sighed. “You know full well that Aunt Aggie took on the altered form of a pure energy being when she joined the Andromedans.”
I nodded.
“But of course, she can join us telepathically.”
“Oh good.”
“I’m still waiting you know.”
“Look, there was a storm, this chick wasn’t fledged,” I said hurriedly – speaking loudly so that my voice would travel down the passage to the kitchen. “The others had fledged the day before, had taken to the trees. This poor mite was still grounded and she was just not going to survive the storm. We did the decent thing. We rescued her, took her in. By the time the storm had passed, her family were gone – and it turned out later that only two chicks, the biggest, had survived the storm. If we’d left her out there she’d never have made it.”
“Uhuh. And you’ve kept her, why? You’re not thinking of fattening her up for Christmas, are you?” Atyllah shot me a beady look.
“Of course not. At this point she’s abandoned. She’s tiny and she still can’t fly properly. We’re doing what we believe is the decent thing. As soon as she’s big enough, we’ll set her free.”
“You know if it was any other human telling me this, I wouldn’t believe them.”
I sighed, relieved. “Thanks, Atyllah.”
“Oh, don’t think you’ve got off that lightly. If there is a young fowl to be raised, you’re not doing it alone. It’s going to be done properly.”
“What do you mean?” I asked nervously.
“It means we’re staying to help.”
“Both of you?” I asked, groaning inwardly.
“Uhuh.”
“Oh.”
“Oh pul-lease, don’t look so miserable, anyone else would be grateful for the assistance.”
“Yes, they would,” crowed a voice from the doorway.
“Hello, Granny,” I said weakly and tried to pull the duvet over my head again.

So there you have it. And I thought D and I were getting along just fine in raising little Bo. Now Atyllah and Granny Were have turned up from Novapulse and are weighing in with their expert advice. Oh by the Great Corncob, as if I needed more drama. Will someone just remind me when we come up to full moon. We’ll need to truss Granny to keep her out of harm’s way. Harm to everyone else that is. I don’t even want to think of the effect on Bo when Granny goes lunar and does the full werechicken number. Still, the old bird might come in handy in dealing with the sparrowhawk… and Mrs Stroppy. Now that could well be a sight worth witnessing.

Villa Beau Bo - Bo's new accommodation - we hope she likes it!
And yes, it's been a weekend of sawing, hammering, planing and varnishing.

That chicken insists on doing a meme...

Newsflash: I recently read about a campaign aimed at alleviating poverty and thought some of you may be interested in following it up. Called the Worldwide Blogger BakeOff Challenge, the campaign aims to raise $1million to help address issues of starvation in Africa. Actions include sharing and voting for bread recipes, baking and donating funds. Go and take a look.


And moving on from that, and because I am in dire need of some silliness after a very stressful week of medical tests which assure me I'm getting old and am generally falling to bits...

A few weeks ago, I was awarded this


And then last week I was awarded it two more times. Thanks to wonderful and very special Val and to irrepressible and hilarious Laquet! Thing is, the last two times the award came with a meme… hmm... and I’ve figured, because some silliness is good for the soul, that I may as well do the thing. It’s a one word meme, which I feel sure I will find a little challenging… And there’s another point. As you may well know, there is a certain alien chicken of my acquaintance who has a strange perversion; she actually likes doing the bloody things. So on her weekly check in, yes, she does do that you know, gets into my head about once a week with her telepathic powers just so she can tell me what a mess humans are continuing to make of the planet. You have no idea how loudly she’s been cackling about the credit crisis… If I hear another “I told you so” and “Well, what in the name of the Great Corn Cob, did you expect”, I am going to… I am going to… No, never mind what I’m going to do, I can hear her listening and it’s just not worth the bother.

So, okay, we’re going to take turns to do this meme. I’m going first. Yes, I am. So there… Ouch! Guinea fowl in the garden, alien chickens in my head… I don’t want to even contemplate where it might end. Ouch!

Where is your mobile phone? bedroom
Where is your significant other? bedroom
Your hair colour? brown
Your mother? hmmm
Your father? offplanet
Your favourite thing? books
Your dream last night? none
Your dream goal? published
The room you're in? study
Your hobby? photography
Your fear? none
Where do you want to be in 6 years? published
Where were you last night? bed
What you're not? dead
One of your wish-list items? published
Where you grew up? CapeTown
The last thing you did? typed
What are you wearing? trousers
Your TV? off
Your pets? wild
Your computer? on
Your mood? yes
Missing someone? no
Your car? fast
Something you're not wearing? feathers
Favourite shop? bookstore
Your summer? hot
Love someone? yes
Your favourite colour? rainbow
When is the last time you laughed? today
Last time you cried? lastMonday



Alright, shove over then, it’s my turn!
What happened to please?
Please? Oh pul-lease! Ba-kaak!

First of all, hello you lot – pleased to see me again? And hello to all Vanilla’s new bloggy friends. I hope you’re all nice people… There will be pecking if you are not.
Now…

Where is your mobile phone? Oh lord, humans! What’s wrong with telepathy, I ask you.

Atyllah, it’s a one word meme…
Says who?
The rules.
And whose rules might those be? Huh? Huh?
Erm, the person who created the meme.
And that’s important how?
Er… okay, you’ve got me there.
Don’t I always. Now, shut up and let me get on with it. My way…. I did it my way…
You’re not going to start singing are you?
You have a problem with that?
No, of course not, sing if you must, I’m just going out into the garden…
Ba-kaaaaak! Now were was I? And do I have your undivided attention? I so sincerely hope so…

Where is your significant other? Oh pul-lease, who’d want one – and only one at that…
Your hair colour? Yellow, orange, red – feathers if you please!
Your mother? Enjoying a corn syrup cocktail on Novapulse.
Your father? Trying to reason with Granny Were...
Your favourite thing? Corn and bugs and worms and telling Vanilla what to do.
Your dream last night? Pecking at a giant corn cob. Ha! Get your head around that Freud!
Your dream goal? To rule the world, muahahahahahahaaaa…
The room you're in? I’m not in a room, I’m in Vanilla’s head...
Your hobby? Riling humans
Your fear? Pul-lease, we Novapulse chickens know no fear!
Where do you want to be in 6 years? Hmm, now you see this is a tough one, it depends on several factors…

Atyllah, it’s supposed to be one word, remember.
Go. Away.
Yes, okay, going.

Where were you last night? Where I am today. Novapulse.
What you're not? Afraid.
One of your wish-list items? Multiversal peace and order.
Where you grew up? Novapulse. See, I can do this one word thing…
The last thing you did? Had tea with Granny Were while she telepathically communed with Great Aunt Aggie on Andromeda.
What are you wearing? Feathers?
Your TV? Stupid things, who’d want one?
Your pets? Pets? Pets! How incredibly undignified. Who’d force another being into that kind of subservience? Oh wait, you lot do…
Your computer? I am far too evolved to require a computer.
Your mood? Amused.
Missing someone? No, why would I, we are eternally interconnected.
Your car? I don’t have a car. I do, however, have a very nice little spacepod. It’s silver and can be cloaked to be invisible.
Something you're not wearing? Clothes.
Favourite shop? Shopping is a sign of a materialistic culture. We don’t have shops on Novapulse.
Your summer? Seasons are part of the human condition. Novapulse is a domed and regulated environment.
Love someone? Exactly what do you mean by “someone”?
Your favourite colour? Red and yellow and orange.
When is the last time you laughed? Today.
Last time you cried? Chickens don’t cry.

Right, I’m done.
Are you going to get out of my head now?
Hmm, I think so, it’s too crowded in here. You really should write that new story, it will at least make it less cluttered, and then you could also stop thinking about…
Yes, alright, I get your point. Bye, Atyllah.
Over and out, Vanilla.

Yes, well, what can I say…
I know I’m supposed to pass on this award, but I’ve already done so, so if you’ve can’t think of anything to blog about, feel free to nick this meme and if you like, award yourself the, er, award.

You humans speak such a damnable language…
Atyllah!
Muahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaa…

In Honour of the Silly Season and Courtesy of Atyllah the Hen…

And just when you thought it was safe to go back into the world… the silly season descends. And not just that…

There I was trying to make my way through the ravening hordes at the mall – having fought my way through at least five traffic jams – when there was a tap on my shoulder. I recognized that tap and so tried to ignore it.
“You know what happens next, don’t you?” hissed an all too familiar voice.
I shoved my fingers in my ears. But not in time.
“BA-KAAAAAAAK!”
Oh bother, what can I say, she came back.
For those of you who haven’t been journeying with me for that long you may not be aware of Atyllah the Hen, Chicken with Attitude. Now I would tell you that Atyllah is a fictional character who used to have her own blog. Atyllah, however, will tell you that if you think she’s fiction then your life is one big fantasy. She’s that kind of Chicken. Moreover, she’s an alien chicken from a distant galaxy and a planet called Novapulse. Nova Pullis – New Chicken – geddit? Well, I try not to because it really just becomes far too much.
“What are you doing here,” I hissed, steering her to an alcove. One doesn’t, after all, really want to be explaining oneself to the authorities when they ask what you’re doing with a five foot four chicken – and one who is likely to give them a good pecking if they “get smart” – her words, not mine. “And where’s your human suit?” I muttered, “Couldn’t you at least have made some effort to blend in?”
“Ha! Blend in, with you lot, why by the great Corncob and all that is unholy would I want to do that? Eh? Anyway, I’m perfectly blended, in it’s your silly season time, people will just think I’m part of the festive appeal.”
“Yes, but you’re not appealing.”
“Oh really? You’re joking, come on, tell me you’re joking.”
“Yes, all right, I’m joking.” Anything for a quiet life. I’m an eternal optimist.
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Checking up on you.”
“And? How’m I doing?”
“Well, Aunt Aggie would be proud of you but Granny Were thinks you’ve gone a bit sappy and that there's been far too much seriousness on your blog of late.”
“Yes, well, she would. She is, after all, a WereChicken. But I don’t see how Aunt Aggie can be proud of me, she died.”
“Oh, I know, from an excess of human toxicity..." Atyllah glared at me in a meaningful way. "But happily for us she reincarnated. She decided she was missing us too much.”
“It’s as easy as that?”
“When you are as evolved a being as Aunt Aggie you can do pretty much as you want. Anyway, listen, I can’t hang about chatting, the spacepod is parked up on the roof – I wasn’t going to risk teleporting here with all the air traffic flying in at this time of year – Corncob, this place is overrun with tourists!”
“And you’re not a tourist – an intergalactic one?” I said raising an eyebrow.
I received a scathing look for my pains.
“As I was trying to say, since we were aware that this was your festive, urgh, season, we thought we’d jolly together for old time’s sake and provide you with some good cheer. Of course, you know my view on these things, “bah, humbug”, but, oh well, anything to humour a reincarnated great-aunt. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”
I was dragged and bustled through the shoppers and wailing children - and past a man who clearly wasn’t Santa - and up to the roof of the mall, where a very strange sight awaited me. The Hens had all descended and were putting on a show!
You can decide for yourself just how pretty it was – and I’m sorry to say, I got dragged in too.
Oh well, ‘tis the season to be jolly, tra-la-la-laa and bah very humbug.

Atyllah's impersonation of Scrooge may be viewed here

(Pictured from left to right - Aunt Aggie, Granny Were, Atyllah and yes, well, I got dragged in too.)

The full-on Hen impersonation of jolly little elves may be viewed here.

Of course, you can join in the mayhem and silliness by going to Elf Yourself.com or Scrooge Yourself.com. Ho ho ho...