A Positive & Sensible Approach to Today in Hong Kong...

This morning is one of the good mornings to be in Hong Kong. The niggling ‘homesickness’ has been all but eradicated thanks in no small part to the hard work of a very patient Holly Sharp. Also, I’m quite aware that I could well be falling in love and am hardly haunted by the prospect. What’s more, there will be no working and no commotion for me this weekend!

I rambled back towards the MTR at Sheung Wan (which aesthetically speaking is essentially the sky grasping equivalent of a European ‘Latin Quarter’ in Hong Kong) content in the coolness brought on by the northern monsoon.

On the train, I returned the occasional clandestine glance with a fleeting smile at those probably more interested in the seemingly radioactive beaker of fresh celery juice I was cradling than in my wearied but ebullient demeanour.

Arriving in Sham Shui Po, I noticed the dank humid frenzy had yet to realise itself and instead revelled a moment in the crisp dry morning and the sight of a metropolis slowly waking to another day of frantic existence. I’m barely stiffened by the sense of schadenfreude that envelops me knowing that I’ll be withdrawing from it completely…

Today, I will go cycling in my old stomping ground of Tin Shui Wai. Having been based right in the epicentre of this bustling commercial enterprise for the last couple of months it will be something of a gift to breathe and smell the freshness of the ‘country’ air.

The cycle route we will take imposes upon you an eclectic but settling collage of the sheer variety of experiences available in Hong Kong. For large parts of the ride, the grasping sprawl of the Kingswood Villas (my former and probably most memorable ever residence) keeps a watch over you as you progress along the river and out onto the Thai-like country roads. However, as you progress the behemoth structures become increasingly diminutive which adds to the illusion that you are truly leaving the city behind of an afternoon.

Ultimately, the relative ‘wilderness’ encourages complete ambivalence towards the occasional sight of the city in the distance. Rolling across the wetland park and out over the surrounding grasslands roots up memories of cycling free and uncaring out on the back roads towards Lunan as a wee boy but for the absence of the beautiful (if eternally frostbitten) beach at the end of the journey.

For of course, there naturally has to be a negating reminder that in fact you are never truly escaping the perpetual and brutal operation required to maintain a city of seven million people and incumbent aliens. Journeys end arrives at a water treatment plant on the fringes of Yuen Long and a stark reminder that the natural beauty you were so cruelly taken in by was almost entirely etched onto canvass by a decade or two of probably reluctant town planning.

Still, at least it is there and that’s good enough for me…

Later, we will visit the Thai restaurant which Simon and I formerly referred to as our kitchen. I know it will be as much of a comfort blanket as ever given that my visit after a two month absence in August stirred me to near euphoria!

“Ngoh yiu cheng ga-lay ow yok faan m goy!”

And It Makes Me Glad, That I'm A Man. For No-One Knows What Goes On Behind Closed Doors!

As a rapidly-aging terminally-single white male, I have decided to extend myself a generous license to be increasingly concerned with how excited I get about very ‘single’ things. As with most epiphanous realisations, this was made apparent to me when faced with the rapidly-aging terminally-single white male’s greatest friend…

Campbell’s Condensed Soup for One…

There comes a point as a rapidly-aging terminally-single white male when you are required to visit the supermarket. This may be because you cannot read the menus in the local restaurants and are afraid of ordering balls. Or it may be because you’ve decided to try making some delicious hors d’ouvres to devour as you weep yourself to a lonely sleep at night. Either way, one thing is certainly going to happen…

You’ll walk around the supermarket a few times, stopping maybe once or twice to glance at the chilled meats and convince yourself you might make a quick ‘spag-bol’. You might trawl the fruit and vegetables section and fancy harking back to the vegetarian days by manufacturing a wee lasagne. But we both know you’re wasting your time…

Even above the bastardised reconstituted Anglo-pop being spewed from the tannoy, a low-pitched voice – perfectly tuned to your degenerating ear canals – emanates out over the din. You can fight it all you want, but those persuasive calls saying ‘eat me you social pariah’ and ‘you’re never lonely when I’m with you’ will eventually draw you over to the tinned food section…

In the United Kingdom, the canned soup section of a supermarket is like a ‘Shaun of the Dead’ style meeting point for spaced out zombified single men analysing salt contents in case their lives should some day become worth extending. However, in Hong Kong all single men work 22 hours to prevent themselves from facing up to their worthless existence with a piece of rope and a high building. Therefore, the gargantuan display of red and white pots of gold appears before you undisturbed and untarnished as if a beautiful and entrancing wonder of the natural world.

So many flavours. So much variety... So much excitement!...

There’s no point in resisting! This will be the high point in your week assuming you’ve already become too apathetic to masturbate. That’s why once you’ve calmed yourself down and made a sensible choice of soup, you’ll insist upon complimenting it with the perfect long-life ‘bread for one’ from the GM bakery section. Of course, you can look all you want but your choice will be motivated by that four word beacon to the rapidly-aging terminally-single white male…

Suitable for Home Freezing!...

With all this variety, it is important not to succumb to over-stimulation and sensory overload. It is important at this point also to calm yourself and prepare for the most incongruous and disappointing aspect of shopping in Hong Kong when compared with the UK. Back home, you’d walk up and down surveying the checkouts trying to make an informed choice. You’re not looking for the pretty or the delicately figured, just the girl who looks like she might offer up a few bantering quips or pass you an uncaring but – to you – meaningful ‘everything will work out alright in the end’ smile…

However, in Hong Kong you already know that the only expressions you can share in either of your languages are ‘Do you have a loyalty card?’ or ‘Do you need a bag?’. There will be no smile forthcoming and you will only be able to drag out the ‘loyalty club’ banter for one or two stumbling words of Cantonese before you retire humbled…

But take heart oh rapidly-aging terminally-single white male. When you return to the private bliss of your ‘pad’, slip back the clothes of your delicious red and white houseguest and survey the welcoming beauty of the fruits of the Earth contained within, you can be sure of one thing…

Soup for two just takes too long in the microwave anyway…

(This post does not reflect my thoughts and feelings towards my present situation' I refuse to believe I could ever become too apathetic to masturbate...)