Sideways Station

If vegetables be the food of music

I had bought lots of vegetables to make minestrone tonight but then I came across this video:

So now I have got my tools out and am making my own orchestra. One can always cook the vegetables afterwards (and maybe the soup will taste better after you have played some Haydn or Mozart - that's just an idea, I am not sure who the tastiest musicians are yet).

You can check to see whether the Vienna Vegetable Orchestra is coming your way at their website. From the reviews I have read, it would seem that this orchestra also has a distinctive smell.

Vienna has an outstanding musical tradition, of course, but I honestly think it should be possible to have an even more exciting vegetable orchestra in Palermo or Istanbul, because the vegetables there are so much better.Then, when you have done the washing up, here is a bagpipe you can make with your rubber gloves:

And, if you only have one carrot in the fridge, here is a clarinet you can make:

More instruments you can make from pieces of your house at www.linseypollak.com

(By the way, ask 30 people how to make minestrone and you will get 40 different answers. I like it the way they do it in Genoa, with pesto stirred in at the end. Here are a couple of approximations Number one and Number two. Any minestrone is better the next day (but put the pesto in just before you eat it). When you think you have got the hang of it, go to Genoa and learn how to really make it.

Tough questions

(This is a passage from Bill Bryson's "Notes from a Big Country" which makes me laugh every time I think about it. It is the start of a chapter entitled "Drowning in Red Tape".)

I'm not even going to begin to tell you about the frustration of trying to get a foreign-born spouse or other loved one registered as a legal resident in the United States because I haven't space and anyway it is much too boring. Also, I can't talk about it without weeping copiously. Also, you would think I was making most of it up.

You would scoff, I am quite sure, if I told you that an acquaintance of ours - an academic of high standing - sat open-mouthed while his daughter was asked such questions as 'Have you ever engaged in any unlawful commercial vice, including, but not limited to, illegal gambling?' and 'Have you ever been a member of, or in any way affiliated with, the Communist Party or any other totalitarian party?' and - my particular favourite - 'Do you plan to practise polygamy in the US?' His daughter, I should point out, was five years old.

The Frog (re-post)

Anonymous


What a wonderful bird the frog are—
 When he sit, he stand almost;
 When he hop, he fly almost.
 He ain’t got no sense hardly;
 He ain’t got no tail hardly either.
 When he sit, he sit on what he ain’t
			   got—almost

								
(From the Rattle Bag, an anthology of poetry
edited by Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes)

Click on picture for frog calls
							

Ounce Dice Trice

The New York Review of Books has taken to re-publishing books which have been out of print for a while. This page gives a list of some and even has a space for suggestions, if you have any old favourites which you think  ought to be rescued.

This seems to me to be a wonderful idea. In fact, it might be good to have a one week moratorium on new books once a year, call it Reprint Week, and dedicate it solely to old books which have been needlessly forgotten.

A short while ago they brought out a book I had been waiting for. It is OUNCE DICE TRICE by Alastair Reid and Ben Shahn (first edition 1958). It is a book for children and word-lovers. It is only fifty-seven pages long but the words are meant to be read aloud, one at a time, and they are so unpredictable and interact so well with the drawings that if you belong to one of the two categories above, you will find you go back to it again and again.  On the back cover Marianne Moore is quoted as having written when the book first appeared: “Reading Ounce Dice Trice aloud is the best way of separating the bores from their airs and the squares from their snores.”)

I have decided to carry a tiny notebook to remind me of words I would like to use but never seem to get the chance to. One of them is going to be "tantony" which is on page 50 of this book.

There are sections on collective nouns with things like a gundulum of garbage cans, a snigglement of string and a tumbletell of church bells. 

And a large part of the book is about naming with names to give to twins, to various animals, for houses. Here is a useful page which will allow you deal with one of the many problems you will have if someone gives you an elephant for your birthday.

 

And when was the last time you talked to the fingers properly ?

A completely different set of names is suggested for the other hand.

There are lots of other fascinating words, such as gongoozler, thrumbled and pobbies. One particularly valuable one is PONSONBY, which Reid says is pronounced whenever you want to change the subject. I think that in the same way that basketball coaches are entitled to time-outs we all should be entitled to say PONSONBY at least once under certain circumstances, for example those long formal dinners where you end up seated to people none of whose interests seem to intersect yours.

You can see some more pages from this book here

Alastair Reid's love of words is very visible in his poems. Whenever I read one I have the feeling that all the words have been selected from a carefully tended garden.

One I like a lot is called Daedalus.

My son has birds in his head.

 

I know them now. I catch

the pitch of their calls,, their shrill

cacophonies, their chitterlings, their coos.

They hover behind his eyes and come to rest

on a branch, on a book, grow still,

claws curled, wings furled.

His is a bird world.

 

I learn the flutter of his moods,

his moments of swoop and soar.

From the ground I feel him try

the limits of the air-

sudden lift, sudden terror –

and movein time to cradle

his quivering, feathered fear.

 

At evening, in the tower,

I see him to sleep and see

the hooding-over of eyes,

the slow folding of wings.

I wake to his morning twitterings,

to the croomb of his becoming.

 

He chooses his selves – wren, hawk,

swallow or owl – to explore

the trees and rooftops of his heady wishing.

Tomtit, birdwit.

Am I to call him down, to give him

a grounding, teach him  gravity?

Gently, gently.

Time tells us what we weight, and soon enough

his feet will reach the ground.

Age, like a cage, will enclose him.

So the wise men said.

 

My son has birds in his head. 

You can also watch a video of him reading it here.

Finally the last page of Ounce Dice Trice also has a good thing to say, particularly if can learn to copy the attitude and the expression of the boy in the drawing. 

The Umbrellas of Colombo

Listen to the poem    

These girls I see

all day

with their lithe ways

and plaited hair,

all with umbrellas,

black, ungainly ones,

cousins to rusty bicycles—

are they, just them, expecting rain?

But although most are closed

some are already held aloft

against the blazing sky.

There is no common purpose I can see,

except they seem

tools of importance.

Some toy with them

with nervous

eagerness, unsure of

what to do and how to be,

some,

very few,

swing theirs

in broad arcs of effrontery,

some hold them solemnly

like parts of a uniform,

some seem to want to keep

them out of view,

the way one might attempt

to hide a cello or a

team’s supply of

hockey sticks.

All day I watch,

all day I’m lost for thoughts.

I see them suddenly appear

at bus stops everywhere,

or else

in Pettah standing next to bristling

market stalls,

in Cinnamon Gardens stepping out

from underneath magnolia trees,

and at De Soyza Circus,

where the crows go bouncing

around, behind and

in between their steps.

On Duplication Road their numbers swell

and just as instantly they disappear.

It’s when I reach the coast,

upon the Green,

where people stand in lines to chatter

back at the grumbling ocean down below,

that things begin to come together in my mind.

I see three of these girls, with circumspection,

cross the lawn, sidestepping all the huddled families,

sit down and carefully arrange their skirts

and then bring their umbrellas down

level and open straight before their eyes.

A boyfriend slips behind each one.

And then with no change in the sky,

most gently—

it is not a storm, there’s no monsoon—

it sets to raining

kisses.

(This poem is included in my book The Observation Car which is available at http://www.lulu.com/content/2588218)

Angelic Landings

(This is a revised version of something I posted in August 2008 with the title "The Metaphysical Olympics. Click on the pictures to enlarge and make your own judgements.).

I often think about this peculiar painting of the Annunciation by Lorenzo Lotto. As you can see,    God doesn't seem to have much confidence that the angel is going to carry out his instructions properly and Mary is just about to exit the canvas. (I'm sure there must be a never-discovered version where she has already hopped out). But most of all, I think about the cat which has jumped up in panic. What set it off? Just the sight of a big thing with wings ? Some angelic smell ? Or do angels move air when they come down and land ?

This one certainly seems to have come down fast. It looks to me a bit like a gymnast trying for a good score when exiting from a somersault. Perhaps overdoing it a bit and so appealing more to the crowd than to the judges. And thinking of that gave me the idea of organising the first Metaphysical Olympics. For the time being we only have one event - Gymnastics for Angels or Gymnangelastics.

One advantage in having angels compete is that they probably don't take steroids. However there are also some problems. It is to be hoped we will never have to subject any to sex tests. And then there is the small matter that they don't seem to turn up as often as they used to. Because of this, I have decided that we are going to judge the event by the way they perform in pictures of the Annunciation. Specifically, we will be focusing on how well they landed.

So here are some of the favourites as well as some of the outsiders in the Gymnangelastics event. Dutch and Flemish painters are unfortunately under-represented because most of them seem to prefer to depict the angel as it walks in through the  front door or else have it comfortably seated as if it had been served a cup of tea before bringing up the delicate subject it was called upon to discuss.

(click to enlarge)

Beato Angelico
Beautiful wing position (and beautiful wings), hands in expressive but not overly flamboyant position. However the angel has not been able to completely check its forward motion.
Very good.

Alessio Baldovinetti
Quite a big wobble here. Wings OK but not outstanding. Hands-crossed position looks like a hasty attempt to regain balance.
Average

ù

Botticelli
Big disappointment here from Botticelli, who surely must have been considered a contender.Very bad form in general, everything pointing in different directions and looking very unstable. Perhaps just about to tip forward onto the ground or grab Mary's garb.                          

Underperformer.

Caravaggio
Go back and practise some more.
Non-starter.

David
Knees somewhat too far apart, hand gestures not perfect, robe not completely under control and wings in in-between position, but all in all a very impressive performance. Might just be a surprise medallist.
Dark horse.

 

El Greco

Almost certain to get injured landing like that.
Are you insured?

 

Fra Bartolomeo
Just slightly tilted and askew, but another possible surprise.
The other Brother.

Gentile Bellini
Not perfect (I think you are supposed to land inside the house), but so dynamic and expressive it is very likely some of the judges will be swayed.
The menace from Venice

 Grunewald

A completely different approach: flamboyant and deliberately rough-edged.

Walk on the wild side

Leonardo da Vinci
Most people's favourite. Turbo-spoiler wings, perfect poise, frozen motion and landing almost exactly half-way between  the two cypress trees.  Flawless.

Rubens
You can't deny the talent, but a rather hard landing.
Heavyweight.

Simone Martini
Much simpler than some of the others, but bordering on perfection.
Shades of gold

Terbruggen
A Dutch follower of Caravaggio and having the same kind of problems in making contact with the earth.Never Land

 

Tintoretto

Seems to have knocked a number of the house's walls down and to have involved the holy spirit in a stuka dive.
Spectators advised to stand back.

And then of course there is Lotto. Pretty good but something is not kosher. I have great confidence in the intuition of cats and until the issue is clarified Lotto will suffer a one-point deduction.

These are of course my personal opinions. I am no expert on gymnastics or angels, so you might want to contribute your own scores. 

By the way, I took all these pictures from a fantastic resource - The Web Gallery of Art where you can organise your own exhibitions by searching by keywords. Searching for "Annunciation" gave me 540 different paintings. You could, for example, try and find all the pictures of St. Sebastian they have. (Perhaps useful for an archery event at our Olympics).

A Minor Key

Listen to the poem      

When looking back, I found my days

lay tangled in untidy heaps,

like unassorted clothes,

just washed but with the colours run.

As when there's one thing

which turns everything to pinks or blues

my wednesdays, thurs and fries

looked just the same as all my tues—

a slush in retrospect,

perhaps a glimmer here and there,

but all the rest unfeatured, unremarked,

an epidemic of unending undays.

So, on the first day of the year,

upon a shore,

I found a stone and threw it in the sea

and told myself that each day I would

take one picture in my head

and keep it polished

so that they'd all shine bright

as markers in the fog between my nights.

And now you ask what did I do

this first month of the year.

Well, I suppose I would have said

that mostly I recall

I slept and ached

and pined and worried,

tried to remember

and fretfully attempted to forget.

But then

I stumble on my picture treasure chest.

It starts one winter noon—

the Adriatic green, a thickly newly poured and

frozen paint. Above the line the sky

starts from

three clouds, identical

in shape,

like corncob pipes.

In size, one large,

one in between, one small.

Below, almost about to disappear,

a ship and, flying out to it,

swaying inside a

quaking carpet of unrolling wind,

a train of birds.

Next come some rusty pears

and apples inside a wooden bowl;

a Rothko painting, only red on black,

the paint which somehow moves

from place to place;

a calendar which read December 39th;

a dog obstructing flow,

stranded in halfway street

between two billowing smells;

the travelling sky at dawn

outside my window only

minutes from my bed and sleep;

a girl upon a bridge shaking her worries

from her head into a spray of auburn hair;

a photograph from 1938,

ten gazes, none the same,

intense enough combined

to keep the future hovering, still

an inch beyond the frame.

And then,

my newest friend

a demoiselle of ten, aglow with smile

as she ran up to say her first hello.

A downsideup bird in a tree.

A waterfall I stared at long enough

my mind just turned to drops.

A greeting which was honey for my soul.

A Dayak hornbill carving, like

a shriek of wood.

A seagull landing on a car just next to me

to wait together for the fishmonger to start his day.

The dance and song of rain

upon the roof tiles over which I

swung my feet.

And last of all a boy from Africa

spinning a pirouette so

sudden and so

bold it stunned a room

and made us catch our breath,

like when you accidentally realise

you've seen a month of minor miracles.

                                                                Phillip Hill 2007

 

 

(This poem is included in my book The Observation Car which is available at http://www.lulu.com/content/2588218)

My Accidental Greek Wedding

I have an irrational passion for phrase- books. Whenever i go to a country where I don't know the language I take along a phrasebook. I often take one with me even when I go to a country where I do speak the language. Sometimes in a foreign country I suddenly stop in the middle of the road. People walk into me, but I don't notice because my mind is wholly taken up by the question: why? What are phrasebooks for?

The first surprising fact about phrasebooks is that you hardly ever find what you want to say in them. Of course if you read them from cover to cover you will be able to note down some expressions which will be very useful in many situations. Two I have just noticed in the last few seconds while writing this are I am not used to this and Is this a local or a national custom? These are both the kind of thing you can want to say about a dozen times a day when travelling. But phrasebooks suggest the idea that when you find yourself in a situation you will be able to turn to them and find a way to deal with it. This, I think I can say safely, never happens.
Perhaps you would like to receive coins as change. Your phrasebook will tell you how to ask for smaller denomination notes but will offer you nothing about coins. Perhaps you would like to say "this is poor quality", your phrasebook tells you instead how to say "this is very good quality". This is obviously due to the fact that there are just too many possibilities to cover. Perhaps the odds of finding something useful would be improved if people began to produce specialised phrasebooks – say Tibetan for Parents with Toddlers, Faroese for Old Fogies, Wolof for Worriers, etc.
But still I do wonder what the reasoning is behind the inclusion of some of the content. I once went to Egypt with a phrasebook published by the people who produce those travel books which are constantly warning you to beware of the locals. I recall that there was one page which had a series of questions which included: "What do you think about endangered species?". I had really set my mind on asking that, but I never got drunk enough. (By the way, some phrasebooks also have the phrase: "I am drunk". Theoretically, this may be useful, but what are your chances of finding it and being able to read it out if you actually are drunk?)
On the same page as the question about endangered species, there was also "Is there a pollution problem in Cairo?". I fearlessly – no, not fearlessly, bravely - asked this in Arabic of a taxi driver and in return I was treated to a tumultuous ten-minute speech of which I understood only the last two words, which were, in English, "No broblem" . I never tried that again, since I discovered that the traffic in Cairo is exciting enough without having your driver turn round to you every twenty seconds to emphasize an important point. I also have a Bengali phrasebook which also instructs you how to say "What should be done about endangered species?" and you can also ask the same question about deforestation, hydro-electricity, the ozone layer, toxic waste etc. and etc. So obviously there is a belief that these are kinds of question you are likely to want to ask in Dhaka as well as Cairo.

You may want to ask them, but my Egyptian taxi-driver example illustrates a major problem: you are not going to understand the answer. Phrasebooks are full of questions it is pointless to ask because of that snag. Here are some examples I have taken from the many books I have: How do you play backgammon? Is there anything I can do to help?What will you be when you grow up? When is the best time to go? or even simply Can you tell me the way to the station? I really cannot imagine any intelligible follow-up to "What do you think of endangered species?" unless you are having a conversation with a very talented mime.
Of course there are questions that assume a simple answer, a yes or a no and sometimes you do get one. But not in most cases. If, to take a random example, you ask "Is the museum open every day?", you are much more likely to have someone answer something like "Only on months with an R in them", "Nobody has ever known the answer to that question" or "This is not a museum, it's a model jail".
When I was a schoolboy I remember that there came a day when I realised that teachers weren't really more intelligent than other people, they only had textbooks with answers in the back. I wonder whether there also might be Teacher's Phrasebooks with all the answers inside. They probably keep them under the counter in bookshops and won't sell them to ordinary people like me. They would seem to me to provide the only realistic way of using a phrasebook: you read the questions and a local reads out answers which you can follow in your own copy.
I have an old French-German phrasebook which seems to operate on this principle. It doesn't have a date but from the way people behave it must be about 1905. Here are some very short extracts.

A Gardener

M. Hey! Gardener ! Where are you?- Good grief, he's stretched out behind this hedge! Is that your idea of work?

G. Ah! Sir, I was only having a little rest. I have been working all day.

M. What have you done today?

G. I've cleared the caterpillars from the fruit trees, pruned the overgrown branches, trimmed the hedge, turned over the manure.

M. Do you think we will have a lot of melons this year?

(...)

 

A Tailor

A. I've been waiting all day for this tailor and I have so much business to attend to. I'm fuming. If I could get hold of him now, I would...

T. (Enters, carrying Mr. A's suit)

A. Ah! There you are ! I almost lost my temper with you !

T. I couldn't come earlier and I had twenty people working on your suit. Would you like to try it on?

A. Yes, hand it to me. Do you think it fits?

T. I would dare a painter with his brush to paint a better fit.

(...)

Nearly every aspect of life is covered. You will also be able to learn how to deal with a servant who insists on waking you up at six a.m. when you would rather sleep in, the way to proceed in order to fend off an unwanted visit to your theatre box and you will be informed of the advantages of gymnastics ("it extinguishes all passions except for love of country and glory"). It is a fascinating book and you will be able to have an extremely interesting holiday if of course you manage to secure the cooperation of the lazy and scheming lower classes.
But my favourite phrasebook is one which I bought on my first trip to Greece. It is an Italian-Greek phrasebook "Modern Greek-Italian Dialogues". It has lost its cover but I vaguely remember that there was a picture of an Euzonos (one of those Greek soldiers with skirts) intersecting a Bersagliere (one of those Italian soldiers with feathery helmets, who used to have to sleep with their bicycles). The author is one Al. Khatzimikhail. The Greek must be perfect because the Italian is appalling. The quality of the Italian is one of the reasons I like it so much (and I will try to reproduce the flavour of its strangeness). The other reason is the special kind of logic it exhibits . For example, on page one we find:

Where is the railway station for Berlin?

There are a number of very famous opening lines in literature – Call me Ishmael being the only one I can remember offhand – which shove you straight into the book but this is even better. It sets off so many questions all at once it is like a little bomb going off in your head. First of all, I have lived in Italy for many, many years and I can assure you there is no railway station for Berlin or even any railway station which specialises in trains which go North as opposed to West, East or South. Italian cities have Central Stations and all major trains leave from there. And from what I recall of the Greek railway system I very much doubt whether there is any station specialisation there either. But another strange thing about having this on page one is that if you actually manage to get a train to Berlin what are you going to do with the rest of the Greek-Italian phrasebook when you get there?
I'm not sure whether we do find the station for Berlin because the next thing we do is buy a ticket to Holland. However the author seems to have taken my point about the need to use the rest of the book because we specify "with a return" and two phrases down, we again say, "make sure it is with a return". We take a number of other forms of transportation of course. A ferry to Marseille. (Does it have a cinema, a swimming pool, music? In how many ports will it come alongside ? Waiter, I feel sick). Then we start looking for the "Olymbiac Aviation" offices (Aviazione Olimbiaca). We ask "will we be landing ourselves somewhere else apart from our destination?" and we call on the "Ostessa". (To me this sounds like a lady rushing around with a dozen foaming mugs of beer in her arms so I think "airmaid" is the most accurate translation.) I am very proud of this term and I hope that you will use it the next time you fly. We ask the airmaid: "Please, in what height are we flying?" to which the answer is the slightly alarming "In six thousand feet" then we ask her "Please a little cotton for my ear.". We seem to have problems travelling whatever we take. On the bus we need to sit in front because the bus is bad for us. (We also worry whether "the way is unequal").
Then we take the car. There isn't a normal section entitled "cars", only one entitled "Car- damage". So it is no surprise when we immediately have problems and have to look for a "Vulcalizer" because "our rubber rims are broken" (sono guasti i nostri cerchioni di gomma). Unfortunately we don't have a "reserve of rubber rims". Here we begin to realise that we are Greek, because we say that we are travelling from Greece to Italy and have lost the road (perduto la via). We also look for a Greek hotel, a Greek restaurant and later a Greek film (Good luck). In the hotel the waters aren't running, unfortunately. At the restaurant we ask for "an own plate" (un piatto proprio) and here we discover, I think, why we have such trouble with our stomach when travelling. We sit down and say: Please, give me a portion of legumes, beef, fish, chicken,lamb, green salad, soup, meat broth, rost veal (vitello rosto), chop, sole. and then I would like as supplement: Maccheroni,beans, cheese,olives, risotto,turkish cheese, fried potatoes. We also have fruit, desserts and a selection of wines.
We certainly don't do things by halves and whenever we buy something it is a kilo or two kilos. A kilo of beef, two kilos of veal, a lamb, a kilo of liver, two kilos of cherries at the herbage shop, a kilo of butter and (suspiciously) three kilos of soap. (Perhaps we slaughtered the lamb on the carpet).
Now something else unexpected happens. As I said it is increasingly obvious that we are Greek. When we are looking for a job we say that "you can get references from all the banks in Greece" and we are also male. We have been to the barber's (be careful with my moustachio) and "in a shop" we have said "I would like also for my wife a blouse, six knickers, three slips and two bras") so it is quite surprising when on page 87 we suddenly announce "I am pregnant". (Maybe it's just a misperception caused by all that food). I could quote many more interesting events but I would like to press on to what I feel to be the highlight of the book which is "fra inamorati" (between lovvers). Here it is almost in its entirety:

I would like very much to speak to you. Unfortunately I do not know your language. I am a foreigner.I would like us to make company together.Tomorrow will you be free?

(You can't help but admire a person who can seduce someone while reading from a phrasebook. It is no mean feat.)

I felt a liking for you from the first moment I saw you. I am fond of you (: I love you). I cannot find words to express this what I feel. You have beautiful eyes. you have beautiful body. I like you a lot. I am absolutely sincere. You are too harsh. I am in love. I am jealous of you. I hate you. I would like to know what you feel for me. A small gift. I will come and ask your parents for your hand. since I really care for you I want you to become my wife. What is your opinion about marriage? Would you like us to try through engagement? Do you think we would be happier if...we married? Since we love each other shall we make our home together? Do you like...children?

That wraps the courtship up. She obviously is a woman of few words. Maybe she just nods. Which may be a problem. Because the rest of the book is only days of the week, months of the year and countries and capital cities. After marriage there does not seem to be much in the way of conversation (although I did learn that the capital of West Germany was "Bohn"). But perhaps there is a volume two: Modern Greek-Italian Marital Dialogues.

But probably not: because as an ending it is just as experimental as the Berlin railway station opening. Having now read this work from cover to cover I realize that phrasebooks are not about communicating with people. They are really avant-garde forms of literature. So in view of this I am going to institute the Al. Khatzimikhail Prize for Literary Excellence in Phrasebooks. Send in submissions to: sidewaysstation@gmail.com.

In view of the larger reaction than expected which I got from the Cairo taxi driver, I have decided not to try out the Between Lovvers section experimentally myself. But if you would like to test it, I would be very glad to send you a photocopy of the pages involved. Please let me know if you accidentally get married.

(And, yes, I forgot to tell you that the gardener said that we will have a lot of melons this year).

 

How our bodies were in the 1950's

Since this picture has a reference to Stuttgart, I am assuming that it is a German representation ofthe way our bodies work. From the style I would guess that this is from the 1950's. It is all very industrial with lots of cogs and iron. Today we would probably portray things differently with integrate circuits and wireless connections. Of course, in order to be really up-to-date, we would have had to outsource and offshore a lot of these functions. If you are surprised at how much German has changed since the 1950's, the text on this copy is in Turkish. I picked it up from the pharmacy on Turnacıbaşi sokak.


Here's an enlarged view of the head. Is this the way yours works? Is that a spider's web or is it some old scentific apparatus ? If those are people deciding in the upper right compartment, I think I have about twelve. And today I have a cold, so I really do feel that I have those 1-ton cast-iron wheels going round and round in my nose.

Coming to your neighbourhood soon.... Complaineries !

Some days the sun comes bouncing up as if upon a spring, you leap out of bed, sing loudly in the shower, your orange juice makes every wall glow warmly, you dress while dancing, pick a bright shirt and choose a smile to match and then the first person whom you meet complains about the birds, the dogs, the rubbish, the traffic or the weather, or whatever and then the second person whom you meet complains about the world, the young, the old, the weather or whatever and then the third, the fourth, the fifth... and every meeting is a mallet blow which drives your mood down further into the ground, until you turn round and you yourself complain about the bells, the clocks, your socks, the motorcycles and the weather or whatever.
I don't want to complain about people complaining, we all do it, it comes naturally and what are friends for if not to listen to each other's woes ? (Although I think that beginning any interaction with a complaint is a bit like ringing someone's doorbell and tipping a pile of rubbish there when they open the door). But complaining is contagious, it spreads and spreads and spreads and I am not sure that is the best of situations. So I am going to suggest a remedy and like my anti-aging pi extract this will make us all a lot of money.
I think there is something missing from our cityscapes. I like the squares and the fountains, I like the cafés and their chairs and tables set out on the pavements. I like the kiosks with their newspapers and I like the various temples and their sounds. But I visualise one more thing. The way I see it, it would be a cheerful yellow and green striped awning and underneath a simple table with two chairs and written on it in toothpaste script (at night it would light up) you would read "COMPLAINERY".
So whenever anybody felt like complaining they could step inside, sit down and for a dollar or a euro spend one minute complaining to someone who will listen to you with attention without interrupting to talk about their own reason for complaint. Is one minute not enough ? Pay another dollar and a euro and have another go.
I know a couple of places where people are always complaining - perhaps it is because of the bad feng shui in the buildings - but I am sure there would be a roaring trade for any complainery set up in their vicinity.
And think, instead of having an argument with someone, you could say, "Hold on, just five minutes, I'm popping down to the complainery."
But who is going to staff our complaineries ? This isn't therapy or counselling. There is going to be no advice or talk from the other side. Just active listening and perhaps a few well-placed gestures here and there.
I've thought about who the most suitable people to hire would be . The best thing would be to have people who have a basic understanding of the local language but not a complete grip on it, because otherwise they would be quickly worn out listening to the details of all this talk. They should just know enough to be able to make the right face whenever one is needed. Of course, we can't pay them much. If possible we won't pay them at all. The solution I have found is: language students on an au pair basis. We can offer them intensive language training (8 hours a day) for free ! And it will also be a wonderful opportunity for them. Repetitive enough to make sure those sentence structures get hammered home but also varied enough in terms of accent and idiom and every now and then something completely new which will really test their ability to understand.
I'm thinking that we could round up our profit by selling articles such as punch-balls or little sound-insulating booths which people could assemble at home. Once the booths are assembled, people can use them to have a nice shout or scream every now and then. (Very useful when trying to assemble those furniture kits some other people sell).
And when we expand to Spanish-speaking countries we can call them QUEJERIAS and we can also sell things resembling quesadillas (which Wikipedia translates as little cheesy things). The ones we sell will be slightly different, we'll call them QUEJADILLAS and by analogy we will translate them as "little complainy things". Because of this they should be a bit sour, but also a bit sweet and the best filling I can think of is the bitter strawberry tree honey they make in Sardinia. Apparently they have similar honey - Miel de madroño -  in Spain too, but I have never tasted it, and I am not sure if it is quite the same. So for the time being I am importing it from Sardinia.
The only question is: will we be able to cope with the demand ?

(In the photo: there is already a queue outside the new Quejería in Cholula (Puebla, Mexico) )