My Son the Chicken Fancier

It is Small Boy's turn to receive a letter. He waves it at me, just as Daughter did with the Activities Week schedule. My heart plummets.
"What is it this time?" I ask. "A trip to Outer Mongolia to study the lemurs?"
"No," says Small Boy, exasperatedly. "You don't get lemurs in Outer Mongolia. They only live on Madagascar. And Bristol Zoo," he adds, a familiar faraway look developing in his eyes.
"Anyway, the letter . . . ?" I ask quickly. Whatever is in the letter, it has to be better than a lecture on lemurs, or indeed any other species and their endemism.
"Oh yes, the letter," says Small Boy, snapping back to the present as though coming out of a hypnotic state. "Read it. And I am going to do it, whatever you say," he adds threateningly.
I take the folded sheet of white A4 and see that is it from The National Federation of Poultry Clubs. My mouth goes dry. How on earth has my son become involved in The National Federation of Poultry Clubs without my knowledge? This is possibly more shaming than being caught wandering around London with a security tag sticking out of my bottom.
I look at Small Boy, questioningly.
"I want to show Titch in the True Bantam class of the District Fanciers Association at the annual show," he announces, holding his head high.
"You do?"
"Yes. And it's only one pound, so you can't say no," he says.
My heart melts at that. One pound! How can I possibly say no to that.
"You do know you'll have to groom Titch if you're going to show her?" says Daughter, scanning the letter.
"Groom a chicken!" I wail. "You can't groom a chicken!"
"Of course you can," says Small Boy. "I don't actually know how . . ." he admits, wavering momentarily. "But William knows, so I'll ask him. Maybe he could come for a sleepover so we can groom her together?" He is beaming like a fundamentalist loony convert to a weird and wacky cult. (Appropriate really, given the circumstances.)
Titch, the bantam in question, is a Lavender Pekin. She is a decidedly cute hen, but putting aside all feelings of horror at the idea of an association of "district fanciers", I can't see her holding her own amongst the posh chickens at the show anyway. I picture her sitting forlornly in a cage, waiting to be judged while the posh chickens cluck and throw out bitchy comments about her lack of professional grooming. Plus, I have been to an agricultural show before (under severe pressure, I might add) and I know what the judges are like: white-coated, bowler-hatted (yes! bowler-hatted!), mean-faced people with no regard for a poor chicken's feelings.
"I don't think it's a very good idea," I say. "I don't like the implied criticism in being judged by one's looks. And what if Titch doesn't like being groomed? And what about the other hens, Chi-Chi and Hazel?" I add, scratching around desperately for other reasons to get out of this crazy plan. "They will feel hurt that you are not showing them."
"Mum," says Small Boy, fixing with his you-are-bonkers expression. "They are hens. They won't know."

I tell Husband about Small Boy's plan later that evening. "How am I going to get out of this?" I ask in despair.
He is glaring at the letter and looks up, stabbing at the print. "I'll tell you how you're going to get out of it!" he exclaims. "Have you seen what time you have to be there? Nine thirty on a Sunday morning! And it's at least forty minutes drive from here - and that's after you've got up early to groom the flipping bird. You can't do it the night before."
That does it. There is no way I am getting up early on a Sunday to help my son groom a bantam hen before breakfast, with or without William's help.
"And more importantly," says Husband. "I'm not sure we really want to be encouraging our son to become a Chicken Fancier. Do you?"
I don't know. He would look quite cute in the bowler hat . . .