The screen flickers; a dimly lit alley plays witness to a clumsy ballet.
[Him]: *points to sky* "Aha! A fallen star just like my laundry!"
[Her]: *scoffs* "Laundry? Stars don’t need washing, dear."
(Cue dramatic music as he attempts a hat-stealing somersault and lands atop his own top hat—upside down.)
Moonlight casts eerie shadows as whispers abound.
[Whispering Crowd]: "Did you hear the biscuit rustle? It could be a ghost... or worse, a gentleman!"
(A lone figure tiptoes, biscuit tin in hand. With every step, a biscuit crumbles. The hidden figure’s face—unexpectedly. A sprightly cat, biscuit mustache intact.)