And here, ladies and gentlemen, we have a very ordinary Parisian street – very close to where I was staying, in fact.
It is raining, as you will see in the picture, and we are looking down the street, with its tastefully shuttered Parisian windows, and we can see cars, and a fast food establishment.
But hold on for a moment.
What IS that sign? Yes, its a kebab, but then, its a kebab shop, and theres also a salad, and a tree, or – no, its not a tree, is it?
It is a man. The man who sells the kebabs. Or, as theyre called in France, kebaps. Or kebobs. Or Kabubbies. Or something. The folding of grilled meat scraped from a skewer and placed in pitta with some salad and some hot sauce and maybe some yoghurt, and maybe a finger. Or in the case of this guy, an ear.
I mean, come on. Would YOU buy a kebab from this man?
What?! Who puts this outside their restaurant and says Hey!!! THIS puppy is going to help me sell Kebops!? Who?
Quite apart from the fact hes been dead for about four days.
His skin is green, and falling off. His stumps, arms, whatever, are not proportional.
[Unless there are extenuating circumstances, in which case they kind of might be]
Because there were a couple of nights I may have got peckish.
But oddly, weirdly, we never bought a kebab from this man.
And. Never. Would. Either.