PLEASE STOP DOING THAT!

Next week I well might give the place a miss. It's one of my favourite places to have a cup of tea and a pastry, but yesterday it got on my nerves for a whole whelter of reasons, some of which are strictly 'me' problems, some of which are Toishanese. Two of the old fellows I see there regularly are problematic due to advanced age -- one has a wandering attention span, another doesn't hear very well, doesn't listen, and doesn't let me finish my sentences much. Being, as you have probably guessed, variably on the spectrum, sometimes much so and very far sideways, finishing my sentences is hugely important. Teatime was a mess.

Not deliberately unpleasant, just rather ghastly.

One subject delved upon was whether the ninety year old should get married, so that if he croaks he can have his wife inherit his pension pay-outs otherwise it would just be a waste. But he doesn't want to live with anyone, he's happy being by himself. And his girlfriend in China hasn't even mentioned that yet, plus she'd need instruction on filing papers. He hasn't been back in four or five years, perhaps he'll go there this summer. His yearly physical came back fine. He walks forty minutes a day.

I'm not sure what the other old fellow was on about, as I wasn't listening at that point. Something about the office. He still goes every day. He's nearly ninety, by the way.

Additionally, I got to hear a Toishanese gentleman at another table doing unspeakable things to Mandarin while talking with some Northerners. For the love of all that is holy, DON'T translate word for word from Cantonese into Mandarin; it sounds appalling.

[As an example of how word for wording butchers comprehension, here are the first four lines of a sonnet by Gerbrandt Adriaenszoon Brederode: "The holy vessel, of the goon in which they are enclosed. The plagues, and the punishment of the human race: Is lastly! for me discovered, opened, unexpectedly, For I have already enjoyed many pains."]

Toishanese people high as a kite on caffeine are over the top.
Stubborness, chutzpah, and eruptive gibbering.
Ninety percent unintelligible.

But I do enjoy the pastries there. The same folks whom I encounter in the waiting room of the clinic, where they are surrounded by posters about diabetes, will often head over there to risk a diabetic episode. Very good. Their egg tarts, char siu turnovers, yiuk sung baau, and even the ham and cheese whatever that is (火腿芝士包 'fo teui chi si baau'). In addition to lovely cakes. And pineapple buns (菠蘿包 'po lo baau').

One of the old ladies there who for a long time refused to talk to me has developed into an interesting mixture of Monty Pythonesque Yorkshireman and dry-humoured Den Haagenaar. She still has problems with my Cantonese, and I have a hard time understanding more than fragments of her speech, but there is a sly tongue in cheekness whenever she speaks.


Might go there real early next time. Just after my eye doctors appointment would be good. Surprise every one, and avoid the conversational clusterfudge teatime there has become.



Maybe I should try translating Gerbrandt Adriaenszoon Brederode's poetry into Cantonese.
It would further my own literacy, while providing hours of intellectual entertainment.
As well as yield eruptive gibbering to rival yesterday's flow.
And then, into Mandarin! Excelsior!




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