And I love her

Sometimes you stumble upon a tune that sounds so familiar, so much so that it strikes the most inner chord in your nostalgic nerves. You seem to have heard of it somewhere at its times, even though it could be way before your birth - in your previous life, perhaps.

It happened tonight at a pub in south London, and the song, which I later found out, was The Beatles' And I Love Her. The uncanny deja vu tingled my mind.

九龍塘與我

九龍塘與我曾有一段特殊而曖昧的關係。

九龍塘洋房群的爾雅，是香港低密度住宅區中鮮有的，它是香港第一個（不知是否唯一一個）「花園城市」。牛津道、劍橋道上的洋式大宅，殘留著上世紀6、70年代的氛圍，它們風格迴異，長期重門深鎖，石牆高築，既看不到裡面的花園泳池有多大，更不知道究竟是何方富戶獨占如斯的一座城堡，在此建立模範精英家庭。這些洋宅象徵著低調的富裕生活，甚至於我心中形成一種古惑，似乎在守護著不可告人的殖民地秘密。

夏日黃昏，我獨自流連在圖書館頂樓閱讀，看似在研究西方文學理論，實早已魂遊太虛，忙於欣賞著九龍半島在艷陽下的繁囂塵土，再遠眺香港島中西區一棟棟獨目驚心的巍峨高樓，在煙霞中彷彿撲朔迷離，上演幕幕商場廝殺；時而活色生香，蘊釀著調情的把戲。在九龍塘聯福道斜坡所看到的我城，不帶一點嘈音，是寂靜而安然的。那時候，我心中不時想到，中環的上班生活到底又會否與我想像中一樣？到底工作又是否大家所說般危機四伏？

畢業後，我彷彿順理成章的在中環找到了一份工作，辦公室座落摩天大廈的高層，落地大窗戶光潔透亮，擁抱維多利亞港的有如名信片般的景致，遇上好天氣時，簡直是極盡奢靡的視覺享受。有一天中午，我站在窗前呆望維港風光，忽然想到當年的九龍塘，於是我窮目遠望，卻找不到它半個身影。後來得知理想酒店已清拆，多個私人豪宅相應落成，更有多棟令人不明所以的仿西式古建築，聽說都知婚紗店兼影樓。

數年後的今天，我搬到英國倫敦生活，住在Hampstead附近的上流中產小區。有一月圓夜，我心事重重，獨自散步至St John's Wood的Acaia Road，呼吸著初秋冰冷而靜止的空氣。街道康莊筆直，四面八方皆寂寥無人，只有兩旁的英式獨立屋排列得井然有序，屋內燈火通明，卻不帶半絲炫富的氣焰，令我好奇在想究竟是何方富戶獨占如斯的一座城堡，在此建立模範精英家庭。這些洋宅象徵著低調的富裕生活，甚至於我心中形成一種古惑，似乎在守護著不可告人的秘密。

我頓然感覺回到了牛津道上，想起了那個18歲的自己。

Me As A Pervert On Plane

When it comes to travelling, I am not quite my usual self – I easily become a fretter. It is particularly so if a flight is involved. No matter how well-planned and organised I tend to be, anxiety just creeps up from the moment I book the flight. Am I the only one who finds that most airlines use dizzyingly small font size on their website’s booking page? And there is also my bad, if not obsessive habit of proofreading all flight particulars for at least 5 times, mouthing the passport number again and again, just in order to ensure everything’s correct. I’m sometimes anxious as this, thank you very much.

I genuinely admire the 'easy-breezy' travellers, who confidently find themselves at ease on board, strolling in the cabin with much class and nonchalance. I, on the other hand, tend to behave with exceptional clumsiness. Long haul flights are the worst, because I basically cannot rest in motion, for I am too conscious of whether the loo is still available (please refer to my previous post about my issue with the loo). I am also that passenger who spends over 70% of flight time panicking about the mere chance of a flight disaster.

Now, my readers, be seated comfortably and let me share with you a dramatic sex-related anecdote I experienced on the plane.

Me, sex, plane. Sounds juicy, yes?

So I was on the plane to London the other day. The plane took off, the much-loved in-flight entertainment system was in full operation, and you started to hear people laugh hootily to comedy shows like lunatics. You know, typical on-board scenario. 

I forgot my fluffy muji pillow, so I stood up, clacked open the overhead baggage shelf to retrieve my massive baggage. It was a very packed shelf, I tell you, as one bag placed upon another like jenga. I paused for a moment thinking whether I would be able to get my bag out fuss-lessly. With a deep inhale, I stood on tiptoes, as my hands firmly reached and grasped the very bottom of my 10kg bag. Will it fall? Will it fall? Wait… Wait.. WAIT! Ahhhhhh.

It fell, making a noise even the captain could hear.

Not my 10kg bag this time, luckily (though it happened another time when I was on business trip to Taipei. More on that later.) But it was someone else’s shopping bag. Objects scattered everywhere. Packages big and small, everywhere on the aisle now. Brilliant, isn’t it.

Mortified, I apologised immediately to the nearby passengers, even though I hadn't a clue to whom the bag belonged. I was also curious why the owner didn’t bother to stand up to pick up or be mad at me.

But as I knelt down to collect them one by one, I was surprised by what was printed on the packages.

They were sexy ladies wearing S&M leather outfits, handcuffs, uniforms, etc.

“Oh well… I’m so sorry… TO DROP ****SOMEONE ELSE’S BAG***…..” I mumbled…  “Let me get MY bag UP THERE now…” I was suddenly Captain Obvious.

Taken aback by this surprise, I immediately shoved everything back into that big red plastic bag, thinking why the bloody hell he (or she, for I mustn’t gender the use of sex toys) didn’t actually put them in the luggage. 

Okay, now everything's back in place. I hope nobody saw it. (Pretty much everyone did)

"Ammm.. Excuse me" Someone patted on my shoulder from behind.

“Sorry sir, you've missed this.” A guy handed me another bag of hot-blonde-wearing-no-fabric-outfit.

The crowd grew increasingly alerted, and I was in dire need of a clarification that it was not MY hot-blonde-wearing-no-fabric-outfit, obviously. Though I couldn’t possibly clarify that either, obviously. At the time I simply wished the owner of such kinky stuff would stand up so the others would know it’s not mine.

But course, he didn’t. (Why do I keep on using 'him' ?)

So there I was, your kinky young fellow passenger who flew with you for 8 hours. I think some parents actually covered their children’s eyes. I became officially sinful, thank you.

The Conundrums of Dining Alone in Hong Kong - Splitting and Sharing the Table

I don’t know how it is in other cultures, but venturing to a restaurant alone has never been a nerve-wrecking experience here in Hong Kong. Obviously, we don’t call it a transient city for nothing, for even on the microscopic level of dining, we Hongkongers are pretty much a speed-inclined pack who come, sit, eat, and leave out of biting necessity. Either we have but a pitiable amount of lunch time because of the afternoon meeting coming up; or we all finish work in different hours, rendering an impromptu dinner with friends quite a bit of a mish. Whatever reason it is, we have developed a culture of dining forlornly and quickly, about which I am not complaining at all – it’s all quite lovely actually, because HK has at the same time also become a, what I call, solitary-dining-friendly place. 

So I hear you ask, my dear readers, “where does awkwardness lie in this blog entry then?” Excellent question (* exudes air of authority of an all-nurturing educator *). Precisely because most waiters/ waitresses are hearty enough to take care of a frequent solitary dining person like me, they make a little effort to split the table for you.

The "Symbolic Gap"

Now, that’s where the discombobulating part is. So you went into a restaurant, found no available seats other than the table next to an already dining couple. The waiter/waitress then offered said seat and inquired if it’s much of an issue. You said no, of course. S/he brought you forward, as you comfortably sat down, displaying a polite-yet-forced smile to the intruded couple. Then, here it is, the waiter/waitress kindly detached your table from the couple’s, yet to a very minor extent, leaving a baffling feeble gap of 3cm.

What does that mean at all really…? The waiter/waitress appeared to be all winningly proud, thinking s/he has vacuumed the awkwardness into the gap, whereas I stared at it in utter bafflement. Is it meant to be an imaginary, symbolic partition, against which both parties would act like each other didn’t exist?

Well hello! I’m apparently invisible because of the 3cm gap between us. We’re SO convinced even though your spaghetti cabonara next to me looks and smells salivating.

Odd.

I hope at this point you don’t mistake me for a mean, sour and demanding customer, as in fact, the effort is all appreciated, thanks muchly. But in all honesty, it just creates every unnecessary feeling of abandonment that would otherwise not have conjured if not for said crack.

Throughout the meal the gap seemed to subtly shout “this guy doesn’t belong to the bigger group. Now, HE, is a loner.”

Thanks muchly.

The Table-sharing Embarrassment

Albeit merely symbolic, being "served" with a gap might actually be a fortunate treatment. Fact is, dining in this busy city can at times turn out to be a tricky social occasion. I call it a "social" occasion, because those are the times when we’re thrown into a table of complete strangers, with whom you are forced to cope throughout your meal.

Being a frequent lone diner ( such an awfully sad term – "lone diner" - Imagine a veiled spinster wearing all black sitting there sobbing with a little handkerchief wiping the corner of her eye), I have had more of such experience than I ever needed. While I proudly congratulated myself on the strong track of lone dining experience, it often took just one incident to shatter my confidence. Let me now share with you my most extreme table-sharing fiasco:

It was lunchtime in a Vietnamese restaurant, one that was as local and busy as its food was tasty. I, famished and dehydrated, was dying for the lemongrass pork-chop rice with fresh coconut juice. Eagerly I stepped into the hustle and bustle of the restaurant and was immediately asked by a high-pitched lady “HOW MANY OF YOU???”

“Oh, one, just me.”

“Okay this way lah handsome.” This is one thing I love about Hong Kong – we are never judged for dining alone with that oh-just-you-only-face.

Oh nelly. She brought me to a table of 6, around which were:

1.    An affectionate teenage couple shamelessly feeding each other

2.    Grandma and mum eating in silence and indifference to each other – the smell of post-argument air.

3.    Young dad in his early thirties and his boisterous, attention-seeking son jumping on the chair. (Single dad?? Or just busy working mum?), and

4.    Yes, me. Well hello!

Now, question: how to survive in such a situation?

a.    Run (but you were hungry and it was lunchtime in TST)

b.    Request another table (An obvious impossibility)

c.     Ask for take-away (refer to a.)

d.    Suck it up (Yes! Congratulations – you are in for a social challenge!)

But first of all, where should I look at? The table was round, which means you would be inevitably looking at someone and come off as creepily observing someone's ingestion process. So I decided to keep to my little space (1/7 of the already-tiny table) and stare at… the soy sauce bottle.

Then there came distractions. The couple’s unabashed PDA (public display of affections, just in case some of my readers are not acronym-shrewd) was overwhelming and jealousy-evoking (don’t judge!); the pervasive tension between grandma and mum sent me uncomfortable dread about a potential explosion of temper; the shrieking kid was a down-right nuisance and dad was useless curbing his little monkey despite fake and unavailing sternness – in a word, infuriating.

There you have - a buffet of emotions as appetizers. Yum.

It was challenging, I can tell you, to confront such a jambalaya of competing emotions on my own. Luckily it is the smartphone era we're living in now, meaning we can be easily companied by our phone(s). Here in the following are some tricks to deal with such an unfortunate occasion. Feel free to use and consider them my gifts for you. You are very much welcome.

1.    Take photos: Even if you are not phototaking-inclined, I suggest you to turn on the phone camera and take photos, nay, LOTS of photos of your food, so you would look like a smart and diligent social network user with lots of friends/followers dying to get a hold of your latest updates.

(difficulty 3/5 – mainly due to risk of seeming like a vacuous teenager)

2.    Make a phone call: Pretend something important is going on and your input is highly valued. Examples: stock buying/selling as you are an i-banker (have no idea what ibankers do really...) , love advice as friend is suicidal, crisis in office as you are the head of office, etc.  

(difficulty 4/5 – creatively demanding)

3.    Receive a phone call: Same as 2., yet with a heightened sense of emergency because they, not you, sought help.

(difficulty 8/5 – wholly because iphone’s signature ringtone is polyphonic and hence humanly impossible to imitate.)

Anyways, my meal was finished in haste, but that’s certainly quite an achievement don’t you think? Sounds like a shining spot on my résumé: Successfully coped with a tricky lunch with 6 strangers in conflicted emotional statuses.

Now I must revise the first sentence of this entry - Hong Kong is largely a friendly place for dining alone indeed, but sometimes things like table splitting and sharing do make me gasp and utter a fatigued "nooooo!"

Office's awkward moments – lengthy email address

Warning: contains adult theme

Being a public relations person, I often receive business calls from abroad on a daily basis, most of which revolve around themes of press request, sales promotion, advertising opportunities and so on. Not quite ‘fun’ by traditional definition indeed, and yet the fact that one gets to liaise with a complete stranger over the sheer medium of voice is a bit of a thrill to me.

Because these phone calls are made from anywhere possible in the world, and that everyone is equipped with his/her own unique accent, phone calls can end up being quite an embarrassing joy to experience in a day of office routines. One prime example to which I can always refer is when the convo reaches the point of exchanging email addresses for sending extra info.

Now, my dear readers, I am not exactly certain how your work email address is composed in your company, but mine is by the classic formula of

English Name + Surname @ company . com

The tricky part is that the amalgamation of “Benedict” and “Tsang” gives birth to a rather clumsy address of “benedicttsang@ company .com” . Double T. A disarray of confusing E, B, D, T and Ns. Spelling my email address is hence often a bewildering task brining much awkward pleasure. Awkward to me and pleasure for listeners.

“So my name is Benedict and my surname is Tsang, T-S-A-N-G. Put them together with company.com and you will have my email address” I explained.

“Sorry sir, could you please spell it out?”

“Certainly. So it is: B-E-N-E,” I offered.

“D-E-M-E”

“ah.. No. it’s B, for Boy”

“Okay”

“and E for egg, N for Nap, then E for egg again…”

“E for egg, okay, M for Map”

“No… *polite chuckle* N for…. NIGERIA.”

“uhhh….”

“Okay N for…. NAME! NAME it is.” witty. 1 score for me.

“Oh I see, Name. Okay so we have B-E-N-E -”

“Yes and then D-I-C-T”

“B-I-C-D…” (what??!)

“D for… ( the word ‘dick’ came to mind but couldn’t enunciate) …er… Daisy”

“D-I-C-D”

“No, T, as in.. Tea. (very unwise to think of the homophone of “t”) I mean, you know, T for… ” 

“do you mean T for toilet?”

“YES, T for toilet please!” I cried in excitement. What an epiphany.

*cue hooty, hysterical laughter from colleagues*

“Sorry sir I heard laughter from your side, I hope you didn’t mind..”

“It’s absolutely fine. Totally.”

So up to this point, we reached but halfway of my email address. Highly inefficient you say? Well yes indeed, and it certainly doesn’t sound corporate enough to use unstandardised initial reference (T for toilet is more than a bit awkward for a first time conversation. Fact.) So, I have actually thought of speeding things up by putting on my desk an initial reference table (those from kindergarten lessons, you know) so my thought wouldn’t go astray to something completely incomprehensible to others.

When asked upon an initial reference, I am abominably inclined to thinking of the most improper examples. “D for dick” and “T for tea” are one thing, other than which I have also futilely tried “B for ballistic”, “L for luscious”, “N for Nigeria”, and so on. Whenever I was briefly at lost for a proper reference, my colleague opposite me stared at me in bafflement, thinking what an odd guy she has in front of her.

If only my work email address was the “cool-type” such as BT@company . com. Neat. Succinct. Crisp. B.tsang would be quite lovely to actually. Or ben.t? No that would only be another problematic 'bent'.