Vive les Petits Fraçais

Whilst on a stroll during a beautiful spring evening, the Dude and I happened upon the strangest site I've yet to lay eyes upon in Digoin. In the middle of a field near the canal sat three tiny houses with unfinished roofs. Too big to be dog houses, too small for les enfants to play in comfortably, too carefully wrought to be someone's Fischer-Price castoffs.

There's but one possible solution to these houses' existence. They must be ruins from the terrible famine of 543, when nutrition was so poor that the French shrunk to the size of garden gnomes. Making matters worse, the nearby Belgians, who had grown inversely larger thanks to their diet rich in snozzcumbers and frobscottle, took advantage of their relative giantism to raid the tiny French villages on numerous occasions. 

What we happened upon could be nothing but one last group of relics from that nightmarish time in French history. The roofs may have been ravaged by time's unforgiving blows, but one last remnant of a carefully wrought lace curtain remains as a testament to the heartbreaking, brittle lives (and bones) of les Petits Français....

Or, you know, maybe they're just forgotten playhouses from the early 90s. We'll never know.