Anyway, if I can continue, it's about consumerism, and uses violence and sex to illustrate graphically the moral paucity to which modern society has been reduced.
There are a few retailers in Nice who would do well to employ a little violence and sex from time to time. It might help them elevate the quality of their service to customers.
Shopping in Nice (as you well know, I'm not qualified to talk about the other thing, thanks for bringing it up) is unlike shopping anywhere else on the planet. You have to steel yourself mentally before you set out, harness your emotions and gird your loins. (That is, if you can lay your hands on your loin-girders. No idea where to get them here, don't think Galeries Lafayette stock them.) For shop assistants - I'm sure they'd all prefer to be known as Executive Directors of Luxurious Style Advice (even for loin-girders) - are not only haughty, not only rude, but many have been trained to regard any potential customer as a downright thief.
Take my local supermarket, Intermarche. (Please, take it.) It's 30 seconds up the road and it's very cheap (well, according to the definition of what 'very cheap' means around these parts). Hence, I occasionally frequent it. (If you can frequent something occasionally). At other times, when I'm not sometimes going somewhere a lot, I avoid it. Why? Because life is already short and I don't like losing the will to live.
Should you happen to have gone into the store having previously shopped elsewhere, you have to hand over your bag to the woman on reception, who gives you a peg with a number on it. This either gives you your bag back when you leave, or a nice plate of ham, egg and chips. (I've eaten in Sainsbury's restaurants, I haven't always been exotic).
Should you go into the store with an empty bag with which to carry home your purchases, the check-out assistant (always a woman) will stick her whole head into it to see if you've not tucked away 10 kilos of potatoes, which you are endeavouring to sneak out of the place without paying for.
This is, to be frank, completely ridiculous. For one thing, I can take in a giant satchel, large enough for me to sleep in if I get stranded miles away from home because of the SWEARWORD STRIKES, with enough pockets to accommodate under separate cover each individual potato from that 10 kilos. Nobody looks into my satchel.
For another thing, there are no fewer than 24 cameras positioned around the shop floor, pointed down every aisle, around every corner of the place, with live streaming displayed on V E R Y W I D E television screens to amuse you when you're queuing for HOURS AND HOURS because the check-out woman is too busy sticking her whole head down people's trousers. (That'll be next, you'll see).
For another another thing, there are ENORMOUS BURLY SECURITY GUARDS watching your every move. One guy, who must be 6'5" (that's actually his height, but it could also refer to the width of his shoulders) is particularly scary. Once, having discovered what I wanted wasn't upstairs, but downstairs in the household section, I tried to exit through the way in, by the vegetables. He was on me like a shot, despite me being dressed for summer (no jacket), a teensy little handbag which couldn't even contain a single potato chip, let alone 10 kilos of potatoes, and no shopping bag.
'WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!' His head was very close to mine, despite mine being a full 4' closer to the ground than his was naturally.
I told him what I was looking for.
'IT'S DOWNSTAIRS!' he helpfully advised me. 'DON'T EVER DO THAT AGAIN!'
I didn't. But nor do I go in there much any more.
(Another excellent reason for avoiding the place is the strange spectacle at public holidays. And I do mean strange. I went in last Christmas to hear the most awful jingly Christmas music belting out from the speakers. I know all jingly Christmas music is awful, really I do, but this was of an awfulness only the French could inflict onto their