There was somewhere at the door. He heard it knocking, a soft low knocking that he almost didn’t hear, but when he noticed it he knew- there was definitely someone at the door, it was a deliberated sound, a tap tap tap, followed by an inquisitive, listening silence, followed by another tap tap tap. It was late, George didn’t know who it could be, but it was cold outside- a layer of frost covering everything and if you opened your mouth to speak it would freeze your tongue to the roof of it. There were no Hooligans, ragamuffins, in these parts he thought, chuckling quietly to himself unsure that his use of the word ragamuffins was in the right context. He wondered why that word, then decided he must have read in a book recently, as he slipped his fat toes into the thick wool slippers he gave himself for Christmas, heaving himself from the armchair that had adapted to his shape, and made his way to the door. The tap tap tap sounded once more as he approached, it must be a weak, short person he thought, why, it could be a child, or a dwarf. He hoped it was a dwarf, children were such difficult creatures to please, always a breath away from crying- and why, you might wonder- would he know? Did he have a family of crying children that would justify his knowledge, or was he just a creep? no, neither; his sister visits him once a year. Her name is Peppa. She has a litter of children, and a new one every year for the last eight- you do the maths. Luckily George lives in a castle with many rooms, and many more to spare (so, she can still have twenty more children if she wanted, with no added trouble to him). George is almost at the door now- please excuse him- he walks slowly and loses his breath quite quickly. Where his breath goes is a mystery he has often tried to solve. George has tried to find ways of finding, or holding onto it. Once he tried to tie breath to a string, but it broke loose in loud (and embarrassing) fart. When he tried to keep his mouth closed, and hold it captive in his lungs, he felt it hitting his chest with whatever pebbles it found inside him, angry at being caged. Nowadays, George has come to accept that breath did not want to be bound to him, and that soon it would leave him forever, so he tries to let it do what it pleases, hoping maybe that might convince it to stay longer. Tap tap tap, the door again. A dwarf, George muses, I met a dwarf once, I hope it is a dwarf, they always have good jokes.