No Ruffled Feathers Here

The form for the District Fanciers' Annual Show has been filled in and the National Federation of Poultry Clubs has been sent a cheque for £2.50: one pound for the entrance fee plus £1.50 membership.
I am rather worried about the "membership" part. What does this mean for Small Boy's future? Will he be put on some register of "fanciers" and be required to disclose this information at a future date? I hope it won't cause problems with career choices later in life. Does that sort of thing come up on a CRB check, for example?
I hoped that once the form was in the post we would hear no more about Chicken Fancying until the dreaded dark December morning when we have to go to the show.
But no, Small Boy is on a mission, and when he is on a mission, no one is safe.
"So," he informs me, sternly. "Today is the day that I have decided we must do A Dry Run on Titch so that she can get used to being groomed."
"Don't you mean a Wet Run?" I ask, sniggering.
Small Boy gives me his best withering look. "No," he says. "A Dry Run is when you practise something. And we must practise grooming Titch. Otherwise," he reminds me, "she may Get Overwhelmed on the day."
Small Boy then proceeds to repeat all the advice his has gleaned from William about how best to do this.
"All right, all right!" I fling up my hands in surrender. "I'll get a washing up bowl, you get the baby shampoo, cotton buds and Vaseline."
That is a sentence I have never had to say before. I am hoping it will be a while before I ever have to say it again.
"And I need your hairdryer," Small Boy calls casually over his shoulder, before disappearing into the bathroom.
"My WHAT?"
Small Boy reemerges with armfuls of toiletries and one of my best towels. "Well we need a hairdryer obviously, otherwise Titch might get hypothermia like one of William's chickens did."
"WHAT?" I realise I am repeating myself in a high-pitched and slightly weird way, but really: chickens with hypothermia? Then I realise this is William we are talking about. "How did one of William's chickens get hypothermia?" I ask wearily.
"Well, it was all because he washed it and did all the things we are about to do to Titch," explains Small Boy, "and then he didn't dry it, so it got too cold and they had to take it round to their next door neighbour to dry it out in the Aga."
I have visions of Small Boy putting Titch in the bottom oven and forgetting all about her until the next day when the aroma of roast bantam floods the house.
"I'll get the hairdryer," I say quickly.
We then wash the chicken. I say "we", but actually Small Boy proves to be quite proficient at washing his little hen and she, in turn, proves quite content at being washed. She sits in the plastic bowl, blinking blissfully and emitting soft chirruping sounds. She also, bafflingly, seems to enjoy the experience of the hairdryer which I have the job of wielding while Small Boy holds her.
We finish off the Poultry Pampering session with a manicure and a nice blob of Vaseline on her comb. I make stupid comments along the lines of, "Would madam like some product on her feathers?" to which Small Boy snorts derisively and tells me to "shut up as you are not funny, Mum."
We stand back to admire our handiwork. And it has to be said that Titch does look rather fine. She seems to know it, too, and struts her stuff in front of her coop-mates, giving them the eye.
"Look at me!" she seems to say. "I'm a show bird, me."
I only hope she cuts the mustard with the District Poultry Fanciers. I won't know what to say to her if she doesn't.