Celebrity Vicar

1

'The world is wide, weird and wonderful,' he says, 'and never forget that-'
'Never forget what?' says Morgan.
'-----'
'Never forget what?' cries Morgan. 'You were going to say something else! Something else!'
Summer was uneventful. Spring was uneventful, but autumn is definitely not being uneventful so far.
'TELL ME!'
The young man shakes his head and closes the grille.
'I know what you were going to say. You were going to say never forget that I love you! Never forget! ! !'
The grille opens up again.
'Nope.'
And shuts. Morgan's heart breaks .

Later...

'My heart's broken.'
'Yu-hum.' Devlin seems ensconced in his programme.
'Doesn't that disturb you?' interjects Morgan.
'What? You were only seeing him for two weeks, weren't you...? I'm trying to watch this show...'
'It disturbs me that you're a talking scone and you're watching scones being made and eaten. What is this, that new lesbian baking show?'
Devlin turns to Morgan with a classic patronising look.
'You humans love programmes with yourselves being born, and beaten up, and killed. It's exactly the same. Now shh! They're having a very interesting conversation about string theory.'
Morgan glances blankly at the screen. Two scones, being buttered.
'I'm sure they are.' he says.

The next day...

I can't deal with this anymore, thinks Morgan, neatly seated on the throne.
There are crumbs all over the bathroom floor; several feet up, the window is iced and London is wheezing, falling headfirst into the lean months.
Morgan Furzedown has several mini heart-attacks from just one page of today's ES magazine, the glossy featured every Friday in the Evening Standard. As his eyes scan the tales of socialite sheiks, business divas from countries that no longer exist and gay spies, he spots Jim. Last summer's love of Morgan's life, Jim Summerton, posing in a silk jacket next to some new actress person with a short haircut.
Morgan flicks the page and notices his ex-best friend's best-friend's boyfriend's one-man show is the talk of the town. There's a photo of 'Eduardo' (which Morgan knows isn't his real name), styled and standing horrifically smug outside the guerilla pop-up theatre where the show is on- a former brothel in Croydon, 'the new new Shoreditch' according to the ES's fawning reporter. 'His Pre-Raphaelite curls will have girls fainting in the front row'.
Ugh, thinks Morgan. These people. I'd better be careful. Too many people have died of toilet heart attacks. I just don't hope Devlin and DeWitt are on the next page.

'How did things go with the celebrity vicar?' asks DeWitt, cautiously, sitting calmly on the counter.
'Don't sit there!I Or I swear, someone will end up eating you.' cries Morgan, scooping him up onto a jazzy plate.
'Sorry.' mumbles DeWitt, a talking sandwich.
'Sometimes I feel like the only person who cares about you, and you don't even notice.'
'Oh, for god's sake.'
Morgan folds his arms and stares hard at DeWitt's Friday filling- a cheese and ham combo.
'All he said was, 'the world is weird and wide and wonderful' and then he stopped as if to say something else, like I love you. And I asked him if that's what he meant and he said, no.'
'What an absolute bastard.' DeWitt's ham and cheese mouth wavers as he talks. His stick-on eyes are eyeing the window. 'I think it's beginning to snow.'
'Snow! Snow! Bloody snow! I need a drink. It's only September!'
'Tell me about it. Have you seen Devlin today?'
'Nope.' Morgan is hastily rummaging through the cupboards for something, anything, to drink. '
'I think he hates you. Apparently he saw you rolling around and stuffing your face with a cinammon danish on the carpet drunk last week, and thinks you show no respect for pastries. Apparently it was four in the afternoon.'
'Oh for fuck's sake!!!'
Morgan stops and bursts into tears.
'It was four thirty.'
'Apparently it was a big cinammon danish.'
'Can I not even eat pastries anymore?'