Reasons Not to be a Chicken Fancier, Part Two

Small Boy is taking this chicken fancying business far too seriously for my liking. Things have escalated since the letter from the National Federation of Poultry Clubs mysteriously landed in our letter box. Unbeknownst to me, he took the letter into school and photocopied it for his gang of collaborators, whom he had already contacted by email to make sure of getting them on side.
"Just exactly who've you told about this chicken show?" I demand, when he comes running out of school, excitedly telling me that "everyone" (that word again) wants to come too.
"Just William," he says, appropriately. Then he looks a bit sheepish and says, "and Matt and Jamez."
("Jamez" is actually "James", but apparently "Jamez" is "more cool".)
"In other words, all your friends who also happen to have chickens?" I point out.
"Er, yeah. Obviously," says Small Boy in his you-are-a-der-brain voice. "No one else would be interested."
I sigh. "I hope you realise that their parents may well be as cross as I am about getting up in the dark on a December morning to wash a chicken and take it to a show fifteen miles away?"
"William's already asked his dad and his dad has already called the man who runs the show," Small Boy announces triumphantly.
Luckily, William's dad is a mate, otherwise I might have a few choice things to say about William's dad. He also knows a lot about chickens, so I had better be extra nice to him. He may have some top tips on how to groom the bird (no pun or euphemism intended).
"OK, so IF we were to show Titch, how are you going to set about making her beautiful for the show?" I ask.
I immediately regret my answer.
"First we wash her in warm water and baby shampoo," says Small Boy, the glint of the fanatic flashing in his eyes. "Then we get one of those cotton things on sticks and clean under her claws and around her feet, and then we gently clean her face. Oh, and we mustn't forget to make her comb look nice and shiny."
"And how do you propose to do that?" I ask.
"With Vaseline, obviously," says Small Boy.
Obviously. Silly me. How in heaven's name have I managed to survive forty-one years on this earth without knowing that you make a chicken's comb shiny with Vaseline?
"And, dare I ask, won't all this intimate attention upset poor Titch?" I venture.
Small Boy looks at me as though I need to go back to the School for Idiots and resit my A-levels. "Obviously," he says with heavy sarcasm, "obviously we don't just leave it until the last minute otherwise she will get Overwhelmed."
"Overwhelmed?" I repeat. I try to picture an overwhelmed bantam, but fail.
"Yes," says Small Boy. "And that is why we need to practise before the day." He fixes me with a stern expression. "And you are going to help."
That's my weekend sorted then. Oh joy.