I'm pretty sure today must be a Wednesday. I say this because I've never really got on with Wednesdays.

Relationship break-up's? Always seem to happen on a Wednesday.

Evenings that my mother calls to tell me she's not getting any younger and she'd really like to see some grandkids? Wednesday evenings.

Mornings when I spill juice down my blouse when getting ready to go to work - yup, you guessed it - Wednesday mornings.

And right here, right now - the day that I encounter the lamest supervillain in existence? Yay me, Wednesday.

For information, I'm not the guy in the yellow chicken suit calling himself the 'Rooster of Doom'. That dude clearly has mental health issues that are going to need some serious professional help. Nope, I'm the tall chick in the patriotic red, white and blue who looks like a cross between a Spartan extra from the movie '300' and Geraldine Estelle Halliwell during her Spice Girls days. And I'm currently trying to stop the 'Rooster of Doom' (and yes, that's how he identified himself) from knocking over a logistics lorry for a well known supermarket chain. The first police officers on scene advised me that the 'Rooster' monologued that his intention was to raise his 'Poultry Posse of Power' from the free range eggs on board. I seriously kid you not. My life has been reduced to the 'and finally' section of the ITV News at Ten. It'll be between me and a duck from Melton Mowbray performing a 'McTwist' on a skateboard tonight. At this point, I'm really hoping they go with the duck or I'll never live this down in the 'cape and cowl' community.

Anyway, 'Chicken Boy' here leapt 20 metres in distance clearing a 3 metre high fence to land on top of the logistics lorry so the police of course called for caped back-up. And sadly, I was closest. Who am I? I'm a super heroine. Well, according to my birth certificate I'd technically be more a superhero than super heroine. It's complex. Anyway, I go by 'Britannia' when I'm dressed like this. I'm actually the fifth Britannia. Great-Great-Grandmother was the first back during World War I. She couldn't vote and had to wear a whale boned corset as part of her costume, but she could drop kick an agent of the Kaiser from Leeds to Leipzig. Now that is 'girl power'.

Dear 'double-g' grandma had died long before I was born but she is still fondly remembered today for when she famously went stylish toe-to-jackboot with a German 'superheld' called 'Rot Ká¶nig' on the lawns of Buckingham Palace in 1917. By all accounts it was epic. They even made a film about it staring Elsa Lanchester in the early 1930's. 'Double-g' grandma saved the entire royal family. I'm about to save free range eggs. I pray to God they don't make a film of this.

So, with a graceful hop (if I do say so myself) I clear the fence and start walking towards the open trailer on the lorry. I could have flown but having already given the tabloids a lovely shot of my panties during my fight with some armed robbers last week, I'm a teeny bit more self-conscious about how I look from the back.

Anyway, as I approach 'Chicken Boy' I can clearly see he is wearing an ill fitting fancy dress chicken costume, though truthfully I think the butterball shape might be more him than the costume. And he appears to be talking to a box of a dozen free range eggs. Okay, I am sooooooo definitely not drawing my sword or unslinging my union flag emblazoned shield from my back. The name of the game here is to be non-threatening and just talk him into coming with me. This guy definitely needs help not a pounding. As I take a few steps up the loading ramp for the lorry I gently clear my throat to try to get his attention.

"...now my sisters and brothers we shall rise and take back this planet from the ape. Together we gallus gallus domesticus can.."

I detest villains monologues. They are generally based around getting even on society for something that happened to them back at school. Y'know the thing - 'I had to destroy Paris because Robyn Brown wouldn't go out with me in high school.'

"Hi!"

That was soooooooooo lame. I've been doing this for six months now and I still haven't mastered the grand entrance speech.

"Err....hi?"

"So, Chic- *ahem* I mean Rooster. Would you care to explain what you are doing? With the nice multi-national company's produce and all."

"PRODUCE?!? This is nothing more than a slave ship! Thousands of my brothers and sisters travelling to their death in state sanctioned murder! I am the right claw of the great rooster god!"

Yeah, it turns out super villains do really talk like that. It really surprised me during my first week on the job. That and the need for them to strike poses.

"This enslavement of my brothers will end! The time has come for mankind to relinquish its hold on the planet and make way for a new species! And I have been chosen as the prophet of the great rooster god! Through his gifts I have the power to free my kind and... are you smirking at me?"

"No, of course not!"

Err...like yes!! It's not like he'd know anyway, the Britannia costume comes with a Greek style helmet with a full face plate sculpted from double-g grandma's beautiful face.

"Err... I think you are. Your face is definitely smirking."

"Look it's a face plate sculpted from mithril steel. It doesn't chan.."

Oh shi..oot!! It does change.

At Monday's meeting of the 'Round Table' - and yes I know that is like the lamest name EVER for an English Superhero team - I got hammered on vodka and orange during the meeting. Piece of free advice, superhero team meetings sound exciting but are basically the equivalent of that first day back in junior school when you had to tell the class what you did during the summer holidays. You know most of your teammates are embellishing on the truth or are fully paid up members of the anorak brigade spouting on about every minute technical detail of the killer cyborg they fought ('and everyone knows that for proper heat sinks he should have used aircraft grade aluminium'...*yawn*). So, 'Amazon' and myself had a drinking game going on. Every time someone said to beat the villain they had to 'reverse the polarity of the neutron flow' I drank and whenever they said "-name- hadn't counted on my superior -name-" she drank. Luckily, they call on the heroes alphabetically because by the time we got to 'Union Jack' we were both drunk and giggling like teenagers. Turns out there had been a bleeding edge technology fair at the O2 that week and the techno villains came out of the woodwork. Later on, I ended up doing some tequila shots with our resident magician, 'Merlin'. He bet me he could link the expression on my helmet to my mood. I'd forgotten all about it but it seems that he could. And did.

"Okay...okay. Let's be grown-up's and forget about the whole 'smirking thing'," my hands made nice little quotation marks in the air at this point, "and why don't you and me take a walk over to the nice policemen over there and we can straighten this whole thing out. I'm sure whatever your demands are, the Prime Minister will be more than happy to listen to them."

For all I know in the current political climate votes for chickens might even have been part of the Queen's Speech for the Coalitions legislative agenda...

I reached out with my left hand to him, indicating he should join me and gave him my best smile, hoping the face plate would reflect it. And then next thing I know, *BAM!*, I'm lying several metres away on my back. He must be some sort of speedster because I swear he never moved. More immediately, I must have hit my head because otherwise... because otherwise the chicken standing on my tummy would be real. I'm as in favour of a 'bogof' deal as the next super heroine, but selling chickens in a supermarket? It seems a bit retro to me, buy one chicken and get lots of eggs free over the next five years? Just how bad is the current economic situation if we're reverting back to an episode of the Good Life?!?

"Nice chicken....shoo!" To underline the point I sort of wave my hand at the chicken in a 'go away' gesture. I'm a dashing, sophisticated urbanite, what the heck do I know about proper animal husbandry? In response it just crows. So I guess that makes it a boy chicken...rooster...what-ev-er. My top trumps superhero card rates me at '45' for strength, which for comparative purposes (I'm told, it's not like I'm vain enough to have checked, honest!) is less than the admittedly fictional Superman's at '50' but more than the equally fictional Wonder Woman's '41'. So I think I can handle a rooster...cockerel... boy chicken... whatever the heck it's called. But of course, it couldn't be that simple. It's Wednesday.

I grab the chicken, gently enough not to harm it though because there is no way I'm getting on the wrong side of the RSPCA over one chicken. I'll take crazed super villain's any day over that! No one cares if you beat the crap out of a supervillain. Unfortunately, the chicken is squirming around in my hands and manages to face me and defiantly crows at me again, giving me an excellent view of its dentistry.

"Err...my what big teeth you have grandma."

I'm pretty sure chickens don't come with a set of teeth. Particularly not teeth that wouldn't be out of place on a great white shark. And then the little fu... feathery fiend...bites me.

"OW!"

OW! Y'know I kind of felt that! It wasn't much more than the pain of pricking my thumb with a needle but I'm supposed to be damn near invulnerable. The only thing I'm vulnerable to is magic and certain metals...so unless those teeth are iron that means... that Chicken Boy is a magic user. Of course he would be. It's Wednesday.

Scrambling to my feet (which I would still like to think I did gracefully) and holding the killer chicken in one hand, I'm tempted to see if I can match double-g grandma's record and send the little thing on a grand European vacation starting in Leipzig. Which of course I don't follow through on in any way! I'm a good girl, miss! Anyway, a maniacal shout from the back of the lorry distracts my attention from the killer chicken.

"So, my arch nemesis Britannia, you futilely come back for more!"

Arch nemesis?! Dream on, butterball! I'm holding out for a supervillain like Doctor Dastardly or anyone in the League of Death. Or another national symbol hero/villain. You on the other hand are so going to be plucked, Chicken Boy.

"Okay Rooster, this is your last chance to come peacefully. Put the egg box down and step away from the vehicle."

"I salute your bravery, ma chérie! But you are too late!"

I watch as with a wave of his now glowing hand the eggs in the box split to reveal rapidly growing chickens. Chickens with rather sharp teeth now that I can see them. Not particularly big chickens mind you. Normal size really.

"Even the legendary Britannia is helpless before my Poultry Posse of Power! Attack my brothers and sisters! Overthrow the symbols of our oppressors! Show this flag clad bimbo what the might of your Dromaeosauridae ancestors can achieve! BWAH-HA-HA-HA!!!"

"Dromaeosauridae? Wait! I know this one, I was really into dinosaurs as a child... err... Dromaeo... is runner? And sauridae is lizard! It's a running lizard! It's a running lizard....oh...."

Still, I can handle a dozen magical chicken shaped Velociraptors...right? I mean, double-g grandma defeated Imperial Germany's best and single-g grandma and grandma took on the Third Reich's superheld. Even my mother took on the Cold War's finest. I'm not losing to chickens.

"Bring on your dozen killer chickens, butterball!!" I shouted with a bit more bravado than I felt.

"A dozen? My dear girl, you arrived a bit late for a dozen! Say hello to the first 3,000 soldiers in the war between homo sapien and homo gallus!!"

I have to admit that it was quite impressive in a way as the chickens flooded from the back of the lorry at that moment. Sort of like that scene in one of the Jurassic Park movies where the Velociraptors jump out of the grass claws first. Except this was a an explosion of much smaller angry squawking, claws, teeth and feathers.

All heading for little ol' me.

I didn't bother jumping the fence this time. Frankly, I wasn't in the mood for it. I just slammed the fence gates with my hand shattering the chains and lock so it swung open. Behind me I was dragging the unconscious form of chicken boy by a foam claw. Mysteriously, as the press would later report, there wasn't a feather left on his costume. I on the other hand was covered in an assortment of brown, red, grey, yellow and white feathers. And my uniform was a mess. You try fighting 3,000 scratching, pecking, biting fiends and come out of it with your clothes intact.

Luckily, my helm, shield, vambraces, and greaves were all made of mithril and therefore without a mark. I definitely needed to speak to my mother and find out if there was any way to get the rest of my clothing magically protected. Not least because I had to make my own uniforms. It's not like Next stock superhero costumes after all! And it would seriously compromise my secret identity to have them made for me given the quantity I need. Consequently, a lot had changed in my life in the last six months since assuming the mantle of Britannia. Back then, I couldn't sew and had no idea what a chiton or a himation was. Now I was a culture snob and wouldn't be seen dead in a Doric chiton. Not the average life of a 23 year old is it?

Approaching the waiting police vehicles I was pleased to see Detective Sergeant James Anderson amongst the throng of emergency services personnel. DS Anderson was on secondment to the Serious Organised Crime Agency (Superhuman Crime Division) and mostly covered my geographical area of activities. I'm sure he had many merit worthy professional features (fast track candidate, outstanding field record, blah-blah-blah) but frankly all I cared about was that he was 'hot'. And that's hot spelt 'H-A-W-T' for information. Dark haired, tall, chisel jawed he had a sort of young George Clooney thing going on. And he was born on 29 September which made him a Libran. And little ol' me just happened to be an Aquarian. A perfect match made in the stars. I'd jump his bones in an instant if it wasn't for one not so teeny problem. But as I said, its complicated. Still, I might not be able to make the purchase right now, but I could still window shop.

As always, he was immaculately suited and booted. He was probably the sort of guy that his girlfriends (please, please God, let him be single!) complained about how long he spent in the bathroom before they went out. Not that I would complain if he was in a state of undress in my bathroom.

Unfortunately, as I came to a halt in front of him I remembered the state I was in. My union flag emblazoned Ionic styled chiton was badly ripped and my blue himation was pretty much reduced to tattered scraps of material. The red edging to both garments was barely visible other than in my cloth girdle wrapped around the chiton at my waist. And I smelt of angry chicken and blood. Damn it! I'm about to meet up again with Deliciously Scrumptious Anderson and even I don't want to stand anywhere near myself. If he ends up with that bitch Unicorn because of this, I'm soooooooooo going to beat the crap out of chicken boy on visiting days at his prison. Remember, play it cool and get a witty opening line in to make yourself look like more than another big boobed airhead heroine.

"Err... Hi"

Did I just say 'hi'?!?! Again?!? Arrrrrrrrgggghh!!! I really do suck at first lines. There must be some form of night school class on heroic entrances I can attend.

"Hey! I don't recall sending out for chicken, but it was sweet of you to bring some by."

Oh...he's funny. Well, I find him funny.

"Well, I hope you'll share it with your friends?" I gestured to a team of waiting police officers ready to take 'chicken boy' from me and eager to start running the usual array of tests performed on a new superhuman. I think the smile on my face is so big and fixed right now that it's probably broken the face shield on my helmet.

"So 'Tania, anything we need to worry about with the Rooster here?"

We have pet names for each other! I bet Unicorn doesn't have that! He calls me 'Tania', which is y'know short for Britannia and I call him (in nowhere other than my dreams) 'Deliciously Scrumptious Anderson'. It's a special relationship. One that shouldn't be spoilt by reality.

"Tania?"

And wow, he is sooooooooooooo dreamy. He has the most amazing brown eyes with little flecks of green. I could get lost in those eyes. And his soft kissable lips. I could kiss those forever!!

"Hello? Earth to Britannia?"

And he's tall!! I'm just under six foot, so I've always maintained I'd never date a guy shorter than me. Of course, our kids would be tall too. Mmmmmmm... Oh wait, he's talking to me. Err...

"Err... he's a magic user, some enhanced physical abilities and needs to be kept away from chicken and egg products. Also I'd be really grateful if you could avoid using the words 'magical chickens' in the press briefing. Raptors sounds much better."

"I'll try and thanks for the heads up on the magic aspect. Are you okay? You're uniform really seems to have taken a pounding."

He cares for my welfare! And I think he's sneaking a peak at my cleavage too! Result! Hmmm... I wonder if he'd be prepared to kiss my injuries better before they heal?

"Err..Tania? Could you explain why your helm's face plate is making kissey faces at me?"

I am going to kill Merlin next time I meet him.

"Oh! I err...think, that is guess, that maybe in the fight it like took some damage? But don't worry...uh, everything is under control."

"So, it's not because you want to kiss me then?" he asked with a broad confident smile.

OMG! Say yes!! Say yes!! Or even better, just kiss him!!! Wait, how do I kiss him through the face plate?!? Should I raise my helm to kiss him? Did I put any make-up on this morning? Sh..oot, I think I can taste feathers. I can't kiss him with feathers in my mouth!! Should I say something? Ask him for mouth wash or something?

"What? Yes! No! I mean, not that I wouldn't if you wanted to... but obviously y'know, professional relationships and... you weren't...feathers... I mean...wow, is it hot out here? I think I hear a distress call! I've err.. got to go!"

This is just perfect. I bet Unicorn would have kissed him. Heck, she'd probably be naked right now yelling 'take me big boy'.

And that was it. I was up and airborne in a couple of seconds. At least he waved as I departed. Of all the days for him to ask if I wanted to kiss him it had to be a Wednesday.

"Yes, mother. I know that grandma wouldn't have handled it that way. Or you. Hey now, that's not fair mother. They were magical chickens!"

It was late evening, nearly bed time in fact. I'd just enjoyed a nice hot shower before curling up in a robe in front of the TV in my flat to watch the News at Ten. Unfortunately, my mother called and wanted to do the play-by-play of my performance before moving onto more traditional subjects of torture. And grandma had been on conference call earlier to offer her pearls of wisdom.

I'd also had the joy - I use the term very loosely - of attending a meeting of the 'Round Table' this evening to discuss next week's impending alien invasion of Manchester and I was tired and on a short fuse after having to explain about Chicken Boy. Typically, Unicorn had to bring back a trophy from her encounter earlier during the day from when she saved a bus load of nuns and orphans from Doctor Dastardly. On the bright side, at least Merlin promised to try and work out how to reverse the incantation on my helm's face plate. Unfortunately, he was as drunk as I was when he did it and can't remember the exact incantation used. He estimates it'll take him six weeks to work out what he did and reverse it. Fan-tas-tic.

"Yes mother, I have spoken to Doc Silver. He's meeting me next week."

Ahhh... We've moved onto more traditional forms of torture now.

The thing is, I'm a knock out from the neck down. I have a figure that would make a glamour model feel plain. All Britannia's are it seems. The problem is, I only changed my name to Abigail eighteen months ago - before that it was Jack. Ever since 'double-g' grandma, each Britannia's first child was a girl. A girl who at the age of 18 would manifest the powers of Britannia. Unfortunately for mother, her first child (that's me btw) was born physically a boy. Everyone (apart from dad) was a bit put out by this. Suddenly, it looked like there would be no more Britannia's to carry forward the family business. My mother had two more children after me, my sister Jayne and my brother Thomas. Jayne was trained from an early age to be the next Britannia until as a teenager she started developing Dad's powers. You may have heard of her, she's the speedster known as 'Black Arrow'. Anyway, the problem is Britannia's aren't speedsters, so mother was back to square one - no heir for the family business.

"No mother, I'm not speaking to Doctor Voodoo. I don't care if the Carib League speak highly of him!!"

During this time, I'd started to manifest behaviour that was quite definitely female but my mother had always put this down to jealousy on my part at the attention being lavished on my sister (and I was totally jealous over the way she could do no wrong as the next Britannia) and sent me to a series of really dull psychologists who kept saying it was okay to be a guy. I finally came out to my parents at 20 years of age and announced my intention to transition. Not that anyone other than dad really cared. I had shown no power manifestation at all by that stage and even my brother had started to develop father's powers. Then one morning six months after taking the girl pills *zowie!* my Britannia powers start to manifest - Strength, Invulnerability, Flight, Enhanced reflexes and senses, and Accelerated healing. Mother nearly had a stroke when I showed her my powers. Six months after that, my body started to change at an accelerated rate like everything the hormones was doing to my body was super augmented. Hence the knock out body.

"Momma..... please don't call Doctor Voodoo for me.... Yes, I know you had to phone the dentist for me until I was 18... but... no... momma, it's not the same... one good reason, try that HE'S CREEPY!!!"

What the hormones and my powers couldn't do however, was change my skeleton significantly. My face looks like a slightly more masculine version of 'double-g' grandma. I don't look male or anything but I'm just attractive female rather than superhumanly stunning. And it couldn't change *ahem* 'down there'. Easy you say, have SRS to solve it. Did I mention I'm freaking invulnerable and have accelerated healing powers? I tried with a surgeon using tools made from the right metals. It healed and grew back. Which leads to my regular conversations with my mother about doctors in the superhero world. Remember, I'm vulnerable to magic as well as certain metals. And mother wants another generation of Britannia's from me sooner rather than later, so she's trying to find a doctor of magic who can make those changes to me. It's not that I object to her aims. I want kids. Preferably, Deliciously Scrumptious Anderson's. It's just that she just will not stop going on about it to the point that at night, I can hear the biological clock I don't have yet, ticking!

"Mother, is dad there? Could you put him on the phone? Yes, momma... I know this conversation isn't over."

Turning my attention back to the TV, I notice that the female presenter, Julie something, has reached the 'and finally tonight' section on the News at Ten.

Please, please God... skateboarding ducks, skateboarding ducks....

"And finally tonight, respected fifth generation super heroine Britannia falls fowl of a supervillain with a difference. We now go to our superhuman correspondent, Jemima Hanson for further details. Jemima..."

*sigh*

"Hi Dad...yes, I am crying a little.. Why? Well you see, it's a Wednesday..."

END