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 go.
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.