Your blogger has been grumpy in recent weeks, no denying
it. Easily irritated, quick to cantanker: good for nobody's
company but my own.
This grumpiness has permeated my idle thoughts, showing up in
my daydreams and my doodles. One night at my desk, I found I
had drawn on a newsprint pad a hanging sign bearing the
words, "Salon Grumpy".
I thought that was an interesting concept. I sent a text to
best friend Amy of Auckland, who is always happy to engage in
speculative conversation, and said: "I want there to be a
place I can go called Salon Grumpy. I do not yet know what
services it would offer."
The next day, Amy phoned from work while I was stomping down
George St, to discuss what Salon Grumpy might be. First, she
inquired was I really sure that was somewhere I would want to
A tow truck rumbled past and farted a black phantom into
being, as the old stones of Knox Church grimly looked on. I
said yes, I would definitely want to visit Salon Grumpy, now
what would it be...
"I was thinking it could be a place where everyone who is
grumpy goes, and you all sit in a circle and look at each
other, and then you burst into spontaneous laughter because
you can't help it; being grumpy is so silly. A bit like
laughter yoga," I said.
"Ye-ees," said Amy. "Or maybe it could be a cafe run by a
dwarf called Grumpy, and he serves milkshakes, and he slops
them all over you every time he comes past. And all the
customers go there because they like that kind of service."
"Hahahahaha, well yes it could be that, I suppose. OK OK, but
what about this: I used to go to a sweet shop run by a man
who was the grumpiest b****** in the world, and I always
reasoned that was because he kept selling all his sweetness.
"So maybe Salon Grumpy is a shop I run where I sell all my
grumpiness, so then I only have sweetness left."
"Yes, now I think that is a much better idea," said Amy.
In order to set up my small business called Salon Grumpy,
purveyor of fine-quality locally made authentic grumpiness,
all I will need is the capital.