AndyBlog: Sheesh! Kebab...

Whilst searching for a picture of a shish-kebab, I happened across this masterpiece of a man's head, sculpted beautifully out of beef and lamb kebab meat, and I thought you might like to see it. When displayed, it revolves on the machine. Pure poetry. I do hope they refrigerate it overnight though...

Before you read the rest of this posting, I would like to point out that no-one was harmed, and that I ended up with a delicious kebab as a result. Everything was fine.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, Fiona fancied cheese on toast, and I fancied a kebab the other night. Nothing wrong in that, you might think - and, indeed, there is not.

So, I skipped off to our local “Istanbul Kebab House”, which is just round the corner from this flat. It's a lovely place, full of signs saying stuff like: “No cheques, credit cards or anything at all whatsoever accepted here, apart from cold hard cash. So watch it, sonny.”

Nevertheless, the kebabs both looked and smelled great, so - cash in hand - I entered, eager to partake. No sooner had I ordered, when a large motorbike roared up outside the door. The rider came into the shop - pushed to the front of the counter and did not remove what can only be described as a massive black shiny helmet.

I was a little unsettled. There proceeded an animated discussion twixt rider and kebab-house owner. It was in a language which I do not understand, but which I presume to be Turkish or some dialect of Turkish.

[ In order to be comfortably accurate, I should point out that the category: “Languages which I do not understand”, is a very large and exhaustive category, extending to literally every language in the world, with the possible exception of English. ]

I digress.

The discussion became so heated that I started to wish I was not in the room at all. My mind was racing through all the scary possibilities that this situation suggested. Thankfully, after a few minutes the dialogue quietened down a little, and the shop-owner hastily put together a donor kebab and a portion of chips.

The rider grabbed them eagerly and left without paying.

Soon, but only after a very load roar from the motorbike, the rider was gone into the night. There was an uneasy moment as my eyes met with the kebab shop owner's eyes. He obviously felt the need for some sort of explanation - but when it came, it was surprisingly short and rather alarming, on several levels.

The man simply said: “Sorry. That was my wife.”