The Peacock 1118

 Centre cushion on the sofa seems the place to be.  I am centred.  And now, fumbling through my wallet, I extract the  white piece of paper with clean black lettering.  Chuck Morris, Minister, Inner City Ministries.  I see a twitter hashtag, a google mail account, and then the ten digits of his phone number.  I fumble for my phone, misdial, hang up, then try again and straight to voice mail: "Hello", rings out his thick Aussie accent which pains me to understand what the hell he is saying, "You have reached Chuck Morris of Inner City Ministries, please leave your name and phone number and I will call you back as quickly as possible."  Telling him nothing, instead I turn off my phone, and remain here on the centre cushion, staring at the mountain landscape painting on the opposite wall.  It is beautifully rendered, rather suggestive of Claude Monet attempting realism, with its beautifully suffused light.  It was a gift of appreciation from a lady in the parish, for all my dad had done to support her following the death of her husband.  

 Carl shows himself in the doorway.

"Well, how did it go?"

"I couldn't reach him."

"What do you mean you couldn't reach him."

"I just got his voicemail."

"Did you leave a message?"

"No."

He pounces down onto the cushion  next to me, puts his arm around my shoulder and says, "Dear, dear Christopher, whatever are we going to do with you!"

"I dunno.  Trade me in?"

"For a new model. We'll have to give that some thought.  So..."

"As Carol would say, a needle pulling thread."

"Call him again."

"But I don't want him to feel harrassed."

"Call him again."

 I turn my phone back on.  There is a message.  From Chuck.

"A message?"

"From Chuck."

"Are you going to read it?"

"Eventually."

"Now."

"  He says.  Christopher, was that you.  Hold on, I will phone you right away."  And now the phone is ringing and my jaw has just dropped down to my collarbone...