Plop stares down at his shoes and sneers. Good heavens he moans. Good heavens.
His lips quiver. Good heavens.
For over a month Plop has been suggesting that people listen to him. Excuse me sir, he’ll begin, but I’ve something rather important to discuss with you.
And what is that? the man’s arched eyebrows will ask. But before Plop even gets a chance to explain the man is hurrying down the path, no longer even condescending to arch his brow at Plop. This happens with women as well, but occasionally they feign a quick grin before rushing along.
Plop cannot understand why people are so reluctant to listen. It can’t be what I have to say he declares. Certainly not. He begins to blame his body. One day it’s his pants, the next his teeth, today his shoes. None of it is quite right he tells himself. Something must be done.
For now the only action he’s taken is to sneer. Its effect is still not totally clear.
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