Terrence Handley shifted his weight, the weight that had been steadily increasing for the last ten years and showed no sign of diminishing, at least while his wife Marie continued to excel as she did at the design and production of delectable gourmet meat pies, and shuffled his feet restively as he waited. His feet had always been a source of irritation for him, imbued as they were with a mysterious capacity to ache seemingly independently of circumstances. This had been the case since the age of about ten, when he first noticed that his feet had a reluctance to settle in one position (or he supposed, two positions nearby one another) for any length of time before sending signals up the nerves that ran through his legs informing his brain that, if it was all very well, they’d rather not be set in the aforementioned position for too much longer. At last, the door opened.
‘Package for you,’ he said, thrusting the object into the waiting hands of Alfonso Delany, hands which, over time, had become not only minutely hardened to the rigours of the world in which they worked, but subtly tainted by the chemicals with which Alfonso spent the majority of his days.
’Thank you,’ said Alfonso, his rich chestnut hair (which tended towards a dryness he found frustrating and did his best to remedy by use of a range of expensive poultices) falling across his borderline brown-green eyes, which were only slightly larger than the average eyes of a man of his age and ethnicity.