Every night, right on dusk, the two leopards arrived at their favourite watering hole, ordered the same drinks – a Dirty Martini for him, a Bloody Mary (extra bloody) for her – and assumed their usual positions, elegantly perched on the wide stools at the end of the bar. From this spot they could take in the whole of the room as they engaged each other in their discreet leopard conversation, their gorgeous coats shimmering in the candlelight and serpentine tails swaying and flicking in concert with the intensity of their discussion. Low, sleek tables were scattered across the room, each surrounded by svelte designer chairs with scalloped seats in high-sheen white acrylic. One night, much to the surprise of the other regulars, the two leopards picked up their half-finished drinks and sauntered towards one of the tables in the middle of the room. As they went to take their seats, their silky coats found no purchase on the smooth plastic chairs and they both slipped to the ground in a sprawl of ice and glass and paws and claws and tails.
'So I guess it’s true what they say about leopards then,' the barman said, to no-one in particular, as he fetched the dustpan and broom.