TT 2- The Morgans

The pigeon leaves its peeping post at the vicarage and flies across the High Street where it settles itself on the Morgans’ Georgian window ledge. And what does it see as it squints through the narrow crack between the Laura Ashley button-pleat curtains? All is not well, it seems. Cleanth Morgan is pacing his bedroom in nothing but an ancient pair of fawn y-fronts with contrasting brown trim. This is not the cause of his unrest, however.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Exactly!”
“Jesus Christ!”
“I know!”
“Jesus H Christ Almighty!”
“Tell me about it!”

Cleanth marches to the window and peers through the curtains. He sees from the corner of his eye that the damn pigeon is back but his attention is focussed on the opposite window.
“Bastards got his curtains shut now! I’d like to see him come flash his tiny pink dick at me!”
“It’s not like he’s got anything to be proud of.” Glandice has put on a flowing floral silk dressing gown and is sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing firming gel into her thighs.
“But it was definitely…erect?.”
“Oh sure!”
“Maybe I should just go over there and punch his damn lights out.” Cleanth says, but his body language is unconvincing.
“I wouldn’t do that, honey. I mean, he’s a lot bigger than you. And what with your hyper-rotating hip-joint …"
“You’re right” Cleanth joins Glandice on the bed and takes her slippery, coconut scented hand, “violence is never the answer.” He kisses his wife on the shoulder. This isn’t a swooping romantic gesture, it’s just that she is taller than he is and he can’t be bothered to clamber up onto his knees to kiss her cheek. “Jesus Christ, though.” He shakes his head. “The dirty bastard shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. Just because he’s the vicar. I still say we should report it to the police”
“Oh sweetie, I’m really not sure that’s such a good idea.” Glandice removes her hand from Cleanth’s and gets to work with the gel on her upper arms. “They might say I provoked him.”
“Provoked him?” Cleanth is already incensed by Glandice’s imaginary policeman. “How?”
“Well, I suppose I was kind of leaning out of the window naked.”

Cleanth sees her point. This resurrects his desire to march across the street and punch Douglas Carduggan squarely on the nose: a desire checked only by his pacifist beliefs and the mental image of the Vicar, a good head and shoulders above him, calmly extending one of his large hands and placing it flat across the top Cleanth’s head so that he is left flailing wildly and pointlessly in the air that separates them.
“Well, I’m not just leaving it at that. I’ll get the bastard one way or another.” And so Cleanth’s own little project seeds itself deep in the fertile soil of his outraged imagination. Glandice, meanwhile, has slipped off her robe and climbed under the duvet. “Come to bed, honey.”
“I can’t. Not now.” Cleanth jumps to his feet. “God - I’m so tense! I need like an hour of Paxman.” He goes downstairs and starts searching through his home recordings for some of Jeremy’s finest interviews .