Crackdown

On my way back this morning from settling the bill for having the staples out (see January 4th blog), I was passing through the small park next to the roundabout on the rue de la République. The sun was bleaching the paving stones, drying out the ubiquitous dog turds, and generally making me forget what a crap winter we have had.

Suddenly, there was a sharp, but not excessively loud crack. A bit like bursting a crisp bag (I don't know whether teenagers still do that). I looked round, as did a rather startled municipal policeman, whose hand had already reached towards his holster.

A puff of smoke hung in the air. Some kind of explosive device had been set off. The explanation was not hard to find. There, straight in front of me, was a fine-meshed net spread wide over the pavement, and beneath it were scores of live, but rather offended pigeons, which had been lured by a prodigious quantity of breadcrumbs.

Several onlookers looked on horrified as the birds were bundled unceremoniously into a plastic box by heavily gloved workmen. "Good when cooked in a pie", I commented. The policeman agreed, with a smile, but the other spectators gave me a dirty look.