The hat, old and disillusioned, sat on Leo’s head like a passenger on a bus which is not only late, but has forgotten which route it was supposed to be taking. The feather drooping pathetically from the hat’s side seemed to have given up any hope of escape and was now, to all intents and purposes, playing dead. Leo shuffled his shoes, which were not having the best day, on the gravel; first the chewing gum they had picked up two miles back and now this. As for the chewing gum, it was just disappointed to be stuck to a pair of shoes with such a low tolerance for discomfort.
Leo’s grimy, tactless finger hovered hesitantly over the unsuspecting doorbell for a second before pushing it. The sound of the chimes filled the inside of the house like a sumo wrestler in a minicab before dying away like a sumo wrestler on life support. The silence which followed outstayed its welcome like a guest at a party which didn’t want to be thrown, much like a shot-putt entertaining thoughts of retirement in a country cottage which sits contentedly on a hilltop which reaches for the clouds like a dieter for cream cakes which wish they didn’t have to be eaten.