The first sweat has broken out. It is fine weather for a day by the beach, gliding (or plopping in my case) on the waters on a wakeboard, even mucking around in the lifeless nether regions of HK's share of the South China Sea. Alas no, I am a stuffed suit situated in a poorly air-conditioned office. Sitting in one of these is uncomfortably like wearing polyester - too hot when it's warm, freezing when it's cold. The new-fangled Coke Zero, an aspartame-d caffeine fix that promises to taste just like its full sugar predecessor, does not calm my frazzled nerves. The heat puts me in a foul mood. Time to whine about the Honkies.
Yours truly's unfortunate battle with the sniffles today can be blamed squarely on a lady wearing wool on the morning bus to work. Wool. Thirty degrees celsius. I didn't even wear wool during Hong Kong's winter, because a basic ability to tell hot from cold told me that it wasn't necessary. But who is one to debate the superior common sense of the Honkie, the sheer brilliance in getting something half price at Wanko's End-of-Winter sale and wearing it now? It is only full-fledged summer. In some countries, 30 degrees celsius only constitutes a heatwave.
Because Honkies for some peculiar but undoubtedly well-thought-out reason also like to sit with their bodies 45 degrees to their butts on bus seats that were constructed back in the days of great famines and slimmer posteriors, said imbecile had her wool-clad shouldered firmly under my nose. Sandwiched between her and sleeping acned boy on the side of me, I was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Now, here's a tip for people seeking to do me in, cheaply: I am averse to hair of most sorts. Soft toys. Cats. Long-haired ladies who insist on swishing it my face in claustrophobic clubs. It never fails to bring on a full blown sniffle attack.
Voltaire was right, common sense is not so common. Especially in Hong Kong.
Slow start to the week, indeed.
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