Our local massage parlour, which prides itself on a certain class and standard, performs a daily ritual, weather permitting, to drum up business and impress potential customers and neighbours.
In the evening, during rush hour, their staff form 2 lines on the pavement, the leader a little to the side to enable him to bellow instructions.
The performance lasts some 10-15 minutes and involves the team of rather thin, listless, mostly young masseuses & masseurs, all wearing a kind uniform pyjama, doing very gentle aerobics with no great enthusiasm, more like an amateur soft-shoe shuffle.
The aim, I presume, is to demonstrate how well conditioned, energetic & disciplined your massage artist is. Adding grandeur is music loud enough to shake the leaves from the trees above, accompanied by the monotone chants & claps of the team.
A small group of onlookers lingers briefly on the pavement opposite before moving on. By the end of a routine that isn’t quite so much spritely as geriatric, the team disperses back inside the bleak, unwelcoming doorway and Shanghai’s normal din quickly fills the void.
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