Mister Fox…

*

The Grand-Father Clock, tock…tock…tocked reassuringly in the corner of the oak-panelled study.

Through the window to one side the ancient time piece’s Big Brother could be discerned dominating the metropolitan sky-line…

Tee was willfully oblivious of the time.

He deliberately shuffled the pile of predominantly red and black images on his large teak writing desk for the third time and shifted uneasily in his racing green, leather-upholstered, swivel chair.

Then he snorted…

It was the snort of a man determined to do something, somehow, anyhow, about whatever it was that currently irked him.

Tee snorted again, “Not in this day and age, Carstairs!”

Carstairs hovered about the edges of the large teak writing desk, diligently, attentively, but none the wiser as to the immediate source of Tee’s irritation.

“No, Sir?” he squeaked inquisitively.

One of the predominantly red and black photographic images slid across the writing desk towards him…

“Ah, I see, Sir,” said Carstairs examining the image.

“What do you see, Carstairs?” snorted Tee.

“Pagan idolatry, Sir.”

“Quite so, Carstairs. Pagan…bloody… idolatry… Well, I tell you…Not in this day and age… and not in this country! Is he in?”

“Yessir, he’s just back from the Penmaenmawr debacle.”

“Oh that,” said Tee looking even more irritated, “what the devil is going on in this country?”

…?…

“Don’t answer that,” said Tee, realising Carstairs was about to try, “we can’t afford another cock-up. She would not be best pleased,” Tee finished reverentially…

“No, Sir…”

“Best get him in here, then.”

“Yessir, right away, Sir.”…

*