C hooked his finger under the top edge of the handle — he supposed fewer people would have touched that bit — and pulled. The door opened with a reluctant groan, and gave way to the interior of the café, and his nose wrinkled slightly as the smell of coffee, cleaning products, and recently fried egg imposed itself upon him. The coffee was pleasant, if nothing else, and their having cleaned was hardly something about which to complain, he thought, as he considered the prospect of smelling faintly of egg for the rest of the day.

      He entered, carefully navigating the remains of the doormat — its lamentable state was the result of people pushing the door upon which the word 'pull' had been emblazoned by somebody with a misguided faith in the public's attention to signage, and proceeding to squeeze themselves through the half-open door, driving its corner into the doormat as they did so. C had watched this conflict play out many times, ensconced in the corner that he liked to occupy when the weather did not tempt him outside, bemused by the protagonists' apparently steadfast conviction that this must simply be how this particular door worked, rather than entertaining the possibility that they might be using it incorrectly.