It was an evening like any other.
I was meandering home down the dimly-lit side street, lost in thought, when something caught my eye and I halted. I looked down and could see, around and ahead of me, potato skins mysteriously scattered along the pavement. I glanced around furtively, a Poirot-like curiosity awakened, but could spy no shred of other vegetable matter in the vicinity.
For twenty or so yards, I followed the trail of distinctive pinky-red rooster peelings and stopped at a shabby green doorway. I imagined some unfortunate Hansel or Gretel, compelled to leave behind an identifiable trail, but were those peels leading away from that door or leading me, La Spud, to it?
I scurried on, the mystery unsolved. For days afterward, the trail remained and I wondered about it each time I passed.