Boys

Last of the summer wine

I sat there expectantly.  The only woman among four men in blue suits and socks sitting in my living room chatting excitedly over mountains of wine, cheese and crackers.  I had thought I would be bored.  Imagining myself having to listen to the ups and downs of the market and whether Hollande really is as bad as he seems to be.  

I was wrong.  The topic that commanded most debate and discussion was actually fridges.  Should fridges have two doors, ice makers, be big enough to sleep in?  Most importantly should they be Miele (No, you pronounce it "Miule".  No! Mielee..) or liebherr. 

Then they all gleefully bundled into the kitchen to make steaks over the stovetop grill (yes, Le Creuset is definitely better than Ikea, says one.  But it's not quite clear if it beats Tefal, says another).

And later.  As as they sat there recovering, blissfully nursing their wine, polishing off the ice-cream and always making sure I was well topped up, sitting comfortably and wanted of nothing.  As I sat there I thought. For the first time in my life.  When we have kids, I wouldn't say no to boys. 

Dead ant

I could not believe the sheer number of ants walking up and down our living room last week.  The minute T left on holiday, they must have spotted their opportunity to settle in.  Every night I would come home and find an entire village of them eagerly waiting for me.  They weren't interested in food but were unusually social and only liked to congregate in places near my feet.  Shudder.

I Googled "ants in HK" and found myself with numerous articles describing various strains - brown, red, small, with wings, without, termites...  I wasn't exactly sure which category they fit into, so I ruthlessly murdered one and sat it down next to the computer, so I could give it a full biopsy.  Brown and Big was all I could come up with.

I tolerated them for about three days and then I thought enough is enough and so decided that I needed to exterminate them before they turned into pets.  In comes "Truly Care" who 'guarantee eradication of anything' without ' poisoning your children'.  Sounded perfect.  So I arranged to meet them at x time on x day and raced back from work to let them in and get on with getting this rather unseemly situation under control.

Of course I should have seen this coming.  We walk in and there's not an ant in sight.  Not one.  Even the weevils in the spice drawer had gone into hiding.  I could see the two teenagers from Truly Care with their satchels and chemical tubes rolling their eyes.  They probably have a name for people like me.  People who have phantom pests.

Anyway, they reluctantly sprayed our immacultately clean and pest-free apartment and left.  I haven't seen an ant since, and have been feeling rather good about my proactivity, organization and domestic management skills.  So good, in fact, that we invited people over for dinner last night.  And just as we were sitting down for dessert, one girl discreetly reaches for me and says "I think there might be an insect under the table."  I look and there it is.  The very picture of ant revenge.  The hugest cockroach I've seen in a long time.  Lying on its back under the table.  The Lord works in mysterious ways.  

And so

Progress

... we finally jumped on the Hong Kong real estate bandwagon and bought the tiniest little apartment in Kennedy Town. 


It was in rather poor condition as a family of 3 (+ maid) had somehow managed to squeeze themselves in there for the past 7 years.  That's 4 people in about 400 square feet.  


In fact, they were so tightly squeezed that when I went to first visit, I couldn't actually see anything, as the beds, cupboards and people were everywhere my eye fell.  The kitchen was the hardest to get a good look at, as I was only allowed to visit at 7pm, which meant the maid was always cooking up a storm surrounded by Snoopy-stickered walls and curtains - you know those curtains that people use instead of a door?  Sometimes beads are used.  Here we chose Snoopy curtains.  


Anyway, Snoopy has now been removed, and we are in the process of heavy renovations/gutting.  When I say "we", I really mean that t has rather lavishly employed someone to renovate as we're just sitting ducks to Hong Kong contractors.  Can you imagine me negotiating the price of wooden flooring?  I don't think so.


The problem, of course, with outsourcing the job, is that you're expected to "let go" and "relax" as you're in "good hands" and "that's what you're paying for" after all.  The problem is I can't.  I secretly visit my little gem every day at lunch and check to see how things are coming along, and then I micro-manage like mad.  


In my head.  

What's in a font

Borrowed from Pinterest

I've thrown myself into personalised correspondence cards in a big way.  Surely, now that I have a new married name, everyone will want to see it at the top of my letters? Or not.

Anyway, I've decided to get them done in Sheung Wan, in a tiny little outpost, where a man sits under a plastic tent with a computer.  He's just down the road from the snake poison shop amongst all the chop stands.

Publishing outpost

But the humbleness of this little stand is a little mis-leading.  Sitting under the plastic cover, my knees squeezed up again his tiny table, I asked him "do you have any samples?".  To which he climbed out from behind the stand and reached over me to a huge tupperware, which contained a full selection of paper (any colour, any thickness, any size) and envelopes. "Pick one!".  

So, paper and envelopes pretty much under control, the only thing I'm in charge of is the font.  Who would have thought that picking a font would be so darn difficult?  I've spent probably 10 hours mulling over Times, Copperplate, Engraved, Bodoni and Arial agonizing over what they say about me.  What does it mean if the G is too big, or round or thick or swirly?  Will it make me look too serious, ditsy, blonde, boring, weird? What if it's too big? Too bright? 

The hidden world of stationery (under plastic)

Anyway, tomorrow I'm going back to my man under the plastic and I'd better have a font picked out, because he's going to press print and then there's going to be no going back.  If you need me, I'll be on Google trying to carve out a personality. 

Beijing

I am sick to death of traveling.  Over the past 7 weeks I've been in Singapore (twice!), New Zealand, Paris and Beijing.  Most of the trips involved long hours in conference rooms and endless PowerPoint slides.  When I'm in charge, I'm going to forbid that awful program.

Someone asked me the other day how long I'm planning to stay in Hong Kong.  I don't think I've arrived.

Here's Beijing.

Messing around in boats in front of the Summer Palace 

798 Art District.  They do pipes in a big way

 798 Art District. Again

  798 Art District. One of many galleries

  798 Art District. Spanish Exhibition

  798 Art District. Food

  Forbidden City

  Our hotel.  Loved it

  798 Art District. Again

 Fair enough

Forbidden City in the sun

Next trip - The Wall!

Bumf for the enthusiastic traveler: 

Grace Hotel - wonderful paradise just 15 minutes out of town

G Hotel - If you like purple walls and changing colored windows, then this is your place

Da Dong - Best duck in town

Capital M - High tea by Tienanmen

Dali's Courtyard - Perfect for dinner under the stars

Amalal - Mojitos 

p.s. We loved it here, are learning Mandarin, and would like to live here and start a street stand selling pancakes

Z Listers

I was a little surprised to be the only woman in the small and shabby hotel gym today in Auckland.  I was also a little perplexed as to why the Jacuzzi was so full of men who all obviously knew each other. 

Had I mistaken the men's changing room for the gym?  I stepped outside to check.  No.  It definitely said  "hotel gym and pool".  Odd.  

So I decided to ignore them and set myself to running and crying along with sob stories on CNN.  

Afterwards I thought again how unusual it is for people to know each other in a business hotel.  Seriously, when last did you go with your colleagues or clients to the basement hotel gym?

So I asked Reception what the story was with all these sporty guests.  He paused and blinked for a moment and said, 

"Have you heard of the All Blacks?"

o

How not to eat pepper crab

I knew the crab was a bad idea.  The minute I gave into my Thai colleague's pleas that you-can't-come-to-Jumbo-seafood-in-Singapore-and-not-eat-the-crab, I knew things might go pear shaped. 

A bib would have helped, but as none of my colleagues nor my client were wearing one, I didn't think it would be appropriate to ask.  But I was wearing a white shirt and cream trousers, so of course they were the perfect palette for "crab aux chemise" or "cangrejo con salsa de Massimo Dutti". 

Needless to say, the crab went all over my shirt (as I tried to tame its claws with a chopstick and a clamper).  

So I decided that the most sensible option would be to go to the bathroom and wash it.

The bathrooms were actually public bathrooms, so there were a lot of interested ladies walking in and out as I put too much hand soap onto my hand and smeared it all over my front.  I then vigorously scrubbed my shirt, rinsed it, and while dripping wet, looked around for the much needed hand dryer.  Given the way this evening was going, of course it had to be one of those new Dyson dryers where you put your hands into a little slot, rather than letting the air go anywhere.  Not helpful when I couldn't exactly take my shirt off (this wasn't the airport) and I couldn't quite fit into the air dryer slot either.  

So I resorted to flicking my shirt (with feeling), hoping to get rid of some of the water.  Clearly my flicking was too vigorous, as the next thing I notice is that I've completely shredded my shirt.  Big, gaping gashes.  Hulk meets Spring Break 2012 style.

So out Hulk walked.  Chin up.  Demanded a bib from a waitress and sat down.  No, I won't have any more crab - thanks, but-it-was-quite-delicious.