I don't know why, but I suspect most New Statesman readers live in the inner city and share their bathwater
As I arrived at the Rose Theatre in Kingston upon Thames to record an episode of Radio 4’s Just a Minute, I met Paul Merton. Paul always has the best opening lines. I offered him a mint before we went through the stage door. “Do you find it takes away the taste of your boyfriend?” he asked.
As we waited for the recording to begin, Nicholas Parsons was pacing up and down. "Do you still get nervous?" I asked him. "Oh yes," he confirmed. "I still worry that maybe this time it won't work. Silly, really. This is our 700th recording."
Halfway through our Sunday lunch my sister let out a blood-curdling scream. Then the boyfriend did something similar, although his was more, shall we say, shrill. He then pointed to the side of the piano before hyperventilating noisily. I followed the line of his quivering finger and saw it. A large grey snake, about three feet long, sliding towards us. I thought it best to take charge of the situation.
My oven gloves were still on the sideboard, so I slipped them on and approached the reptile without a thought for my own safety. It stopped and stared at me, then slid out its tongue and waved it about menacingly. For a moment I thought I was back on Old Compton Street, but I pulled myself together.
My sister was frozen to the spot and the boyfriend was now standing on the sofa in wellington boots. He was clearly insane with fear. If I didn’t act, no one would. With both hands I picked the snake up by the neck. (Which is to say just below the head: snakes are generally known for being one long neck.) Suddenly it wound itself around my wrist, swung its head in my direction and hissed. I was enveloped in a foul, fishy odour. Honestly, it was like a night out with Craig Revel Horwood.
My heroic role in this drama now rather unravels. I shrieked, I'm afraid, in a very unmasculine fashion, and dropped the creature. It slid behind the piano and then on in the direction of an open door, and hasn't been seen since.
We all had to have a brandy for medicinal purposes.
Later in the week I was chatting to one of my mystic friends. When I mentioned that I’d seen a snake, she clutched my arm and looked stricken. “To see the snake means death, birth and regeneration!” she cried. Which is hard luck if you work in a pet shop, I suppose. But I’ve saved my most important news until last. We’ve got chickens! My neighbour has built me a luxury chicken coop complete with a latticed window and a big, secure run for the little darlings.
And little they are - only six weeks old. (In fact, I believe they are officially called "pullets", but I was worried that New Statesman readers might not be familiar with such a rustic term. I don't know why, but I suspect most of you live in the inner city and share your bathwater.) I thought I'd get them young so I can bond with them and they can get used to my funny ways.
We haven't let them out of the coop (it's a sort of house) yet, because it's been a bit damp and they still have their baby feathers. I don't want them catching a chill. I've got four Sussex Whites (white and from Sussex) and two Silkies (fluffy heads, look a bit like Ken Dodd). I've got six hens and one - there's no other way of putting it - cock.
They are all an absolute scream. I doubt I shall be writing about anything else for the foreseeable future. They're more amusing than any TV show I've watched or been in. Here are their names for you to memorise for future columns: Margaret and Maureen, Jodie and Jordan, Billie and Blake.
I know I shouldn't have favourites, but Maureen is showing real star quality. With my connections in show business she could be the next Orville.
Post this article to
We want to encourage people to comment on our content and to exchange views with other readers and hope this will be done on a courteous basis. However, if you encounter posts which are offensive please let us know by emailing comments@newstatesman.co.uk and we will take swift action where necessary.
