No smoking please
Grandad September 14th, 2009
We went for a drive the other day and ended up in a place called Souillac.
It’s quite a large town and a nice place to wander.
In the course of my wanderings, I came across a wee shop on the main street.
There was nothing very remarkable about the shop. I don’t know why I went in. There was nothing in particular about the place, apart from a strange urge to enter.
Inside the shop they were selling all sorts of weird stuff. There were clothes, and boots. There were paper flowers and toys. There were paper weights and plates. It was a strange sort of mixed up shop.
Then I went through a door into the back room.
Sweet holy divine FUCK!
Everywhere I looked there were fireworks.
I’m not talking about those little squibs they try and flog you down Moore Street.
I’m not talking about those irritating little bangers that the skobies throw around at Halloween.
I am talking about the biggest light-the-blue-touch-paper-and-kiss-your-fucking-arse-goodbye type fireworks that I have ever seen.
There were rockets five foot tall. There were bombs about five inches in diameter. And they were stacked by the crate load all around me.
I swear those yokes had been tested on some unfortunate atoll in the South Pacific
Everywhere I looked there were shelves stacked high with them. They were leaning against the walls. They were cluttering up the floor.
One fucking match and Souillac is erased from the map. For good.
For the first time ever, I was happy to see a small sign that said “No Smoking”.
I’ll say one thing for France.
They treat responsible adults like responsible adults.
No fucking Nanny State here.
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