There is a lamp post in the West End of a quiet town. It holds a sign carrying directions to an even quieter town nearby, but that is irrelevant. What is relevant is March.
Every March, inexplicably, something happens to that lamp post, something rather strange. You see, for several years now at the same time of year, a rather nice piece of steak is tied around the lamp post (using no tape or string, just the meat itself). It hangs there, rotting after a few days, yet giving out no smell, until it wastes away so much it falls to the pavement.
No-one knows who does it or why. Meat can be strange in a quiet town.