Mere exasperation, or LAP ATTACK

You know how they say “pain shared is pain lessened”? Well, here it is…

Do you happen to go out with someone who doesn’t want to go to the turkish baths with you because, at about £13 a go, it is considered too expensive, but yet then goes and spends 60 quid on a night-out that ended at 4am with him and his friends in a strip club…that didn’t have any strippers?

I do.

I’m not sure if I should be comforted by the fact that there weren’t any strippers, or be further exasperated by, hello?! what’s the point of going to a strip club that has no strippers?!

If you’re interested, there’s apparently a lap-dancing club in London for ladies only. Very classily called LAP ATTACK. Very classy website too, I must say.

Hydon’s Ball

We went for a walk in the countryside on Sunday.

One of our friends invited us out for a sushi night at her place. A return train ticket costs £24+ and I rationally declared that I can eat all the sushi I want in London for the same amount of money. So Nasty tempted and cajoled and finally convinced me with the promise of a walk in the Surrey hills.

No, these photos aren’t from Sunday. The walk on Sunday reminded me of a walk we did over Christmas, that I’ve been meaning to write about, but forgot.

Ever since the Lake District, I’ve been sold on walking. Even though I haven’t been on anything like the Lakes since, I thoroughly enjoyed the crisp, fresh air, the quiet remoteness, the trees and the mud, and really, just a chance to show off my gear so that I can a) pretend to be a full-on hardcore walker/hiker and, b) think I’m getting my money’s worth out of my hiking boots and what-not.

This walk was to Hydon’s Ball, one of the highest points in Surrey and we were duly rewarded with a beautiful view. The only reason I can think of why I didn’t take a photo of it is because my fingers were too cold.

Actually, I can’t really think of when my fingers aren’t too cold.

Getting out of London once in a while has always been good. Sometimes, when you feel stuck in concrete and sick of police sirens, seeing some sheep and turnips does the trick.

Speaking of which, try counting the sheep from the turnips.

Shit hole

When you know you’re going to become jobless again…

When you know the future is uncertain again…

The world is just one big giant shit hole.

This is my ode.

An ode to my shit hole.




When you curl up in bed and cry…

When tears roll down your cheeks as you ride the train…

When you realise that you suddenly hate everyone…

When you find yourself full of anger and hatre…

When you stare into space too much…

You probably should stop writing.




In little more than one and a half months, I’ll be back to square one again and the world is just one big shit hole.

You fucking arseholes.

Lost in the woods

Over the Christmas holidays, when Nasty and his dad went mountain biking, they wouldn’t let me come along because they said I would be too slow. Nasty said something like, “Look, it’s not one of those scenic routes where you peddle along at a leisurely pace and admire fluffy white clouds.” The fact that we didn’t have another mountain bike was, of course, another cause for concern.

But I tagged along nonetheless. Armed with directions and a map, they dropped me off mid-trail and I set off to meet them at the top of a hill, while they drove  on to start cycling further down behind me.

No fluffy white clouds indeed. As this was the first thing I saw:

I don’t know what in the English countryside would kill bambi. A fox? But why would it leave it half eaten, right in the middle of a trail?

I suppose there are no tigers and lions. Whatever it was, I hoped it doesn’t get me.

That was my first time hiking on my own. However, I don’t think it qualifies as hiking. When does a walk become a hike? At the same time, it’ll be quite odd to say “that was my first time walking on my own“, because, believe it or not, I can actually walk on my own. Only just not in the woods, and with dead animals.

Aside from the initial bambi shock, it was refreshing, very quiet and extremely muddy. I was the only walker for most of the walk up, but groups of cyclists rode past me and I was surprised at how friendly everyone was. There were lots of smiles and hellos and I suddenly felt all hopeful about humankind…

Along the way, two cyclists got separated from their group and weren’t sure where to go. They decided to ask me, the lone person walking in an area she’s never been to before. It turns out they were going where I was going as well. I consulted my map to be sure, gave them directions, felt very smug about myself, and as they went off, one of them called back to say if they got there before I do, he’d buy me tea and cake. I smiled and waved. Yeah yeah, whatever.

After a while, I got to the top. It was apparently the highest point in South East England! In the whole scheme of things, compared with other countries with mightier mountains and more exotic landscapes, this couldn’t have been that remarkable. But the view was gorgeous, the air fresh, and the light beautiful.

As I walked up towards the old crumbling tower at the top, the cyclist appeared and told me that there’s tea and cake at the miniature tea shop peeking out from the bottom of the tower. I smiled, thinking that his promise was really just in jest and he was just telling me what’s available at the shop.

I queued up, eyed the price list, and started counting my change. When I got to the front of the line, the lady waved me off and said, “You don’t have to pay! It’s all been taken care of! Take your pick of tea and cake!” I was so surprised I just stared at her. What? How would she even know it’s me? That’s when the cyclist came by again and nodded to the lady to confirm that I was who he was talking about. I suppose not very many Asians go through there. In fact, I was the only one I saw that day.

I felt so bad about doubting him I thanked him profusely and asked for a tea and banana cake.

Repeating more of my thank yous, craddling my tea, cake and map, I found a bench and again marvelled at the view, how friendly everyone was, and how generous that cyclist was. Granted, it’s not extravagant, but when was the last time a stranger bought you tea and cake? It’s funny how the smallest gesture can really lift someone’s mood remarkably and change their perspective of the whole day.

In reality, it was actually a freezing cold day and I struggled to eat my cake with my gloves on. I thought of creative ways to wipe snot off my nose without any tissue and as I warmed my fingers grasping the cup of tea , I wondered when Nasty and his dad would get there.

But thinking back now, I remember the day with warmth and fondness…

After we finished our tea, we set off again, with me aiming to meet them at the parking lot where the car was. However, the route down was much less straight forward. At one point, I was standing in the middle of a cross-roads with six different trails pointing in different directions.

The signs were pretty pointless. Bridleway is a new word I learnt that day. It apparently means a trail that can be used by walkers, cyclists and horses alike.

Dude, I know there’s a path. I can bloody see it for myself. But WHERE does it go to?

I think it’s the equivalent of having road signs that say PUBLIC ROAD.

I must have chosen the wrong path at that six-trail junction because what began as a trail that veered slightly off direction, as it went on, I became wildly off target.

More of those bloodly signs. So one is a footpath. Now that’s different. I don’t know where I’m going, but at least I know I won’t get run over by cyclists or horses. But perhaps eaten by Bambi Killer. Maybe walkers take pride in finding their way without signs.

As the afternoon went on, I got more and more lost. I’m good at city maps, but I’ve never had to use a map where there aren’t roads and street signs. How in the flipping world was anyone supposed to tell where they were?

It got darker, there were no longer any sign of other people, and I was utterly utterly lost. At that point, my enthusiasm for photos waned as I comtemplated a night in the forest.

I eventually found a road (without a name) and apprehensively matched it to one on the map and gingerly trudged along it.

I emerged sometime later to find Nasty walking up the hill trying to find me, and his dad following behind in the car. It turns out they’ve been having a pint in the pub waiting for me. So much for a movie-esque reunion where an Edward Cullen-type would race to me with teary concern, sweep me off my feet, hold me tightly in his arms and declare that he would never ever let me go again. Ever.

Humor me. Ignore the fact that we agreed to meet, if it was open, at the pub by the parking lot.

No, there is no death penalty in Hong Kong

I have been finding it difficult to explain, to those who haven’t been, the difference between mainland China and Hong Kong.

Until I came here, almost everyone I know understands that there is a difference. However, to lots of people here, Hong Kong and China are one and the same.




Recently, in reference to my poor bike riding skills, someone asked me:

But don’t you have, like, a billion bicycles in China?

Yes….but I’m from Hong Kong…

But isn’t Hong Kong part of China?

Well, yes…..

This is usually when I pause and struggle for something brief, concise and easily understandable. But that is also when conversation moves on and people probably just think that I don’t make sense.




Since I’ve come to London, I realise that my face no longer represents just Hong Kong, but China as a whole.

People ask me questions about China. They ask if it is true that we don’t have access to Facebook. Commentors on the Times website thinks that the HK government will provide “swift justice” a la China, aka the death penalty, to a man who hurled acid on to crowded shopping streets. They ask what people think in China. They ask if we have this and that in China.

Hong Kong doesn’t have the death penalty. There is no internet censorship whatsoever. No, I don’t know if people in China can use Facebook.




Sad to say, but a lot of what I know about China, I know from an Englishman, or experienced with the Englishman. I never ventured more than three hours beyond the HK border into China until I needed to see the Englishman.




Another common exchange here goes like this:

So where are you from?

Hong Kong.

Oh, you mean China?

I want to say, yes, it’s a part of China, but you can’t imagine HK as like the rest of the country. It’s very different.

But then people get bored.




So now, I’m trying to come up with a prescribed answer for when someone asks anything similar again.




Hong Kong: Imagine a giant Canary Wharf, spread over the entire area of Greater London, just much taller and a lot denser and hillier, with the same British roads, traffic lights and signage. Same double-decker buses, but a much better Underground. Replace black cabs with red Toyotas as taxis. All the food here is available, just add a lot more Chinese restaurants and greasy-spoons, less curry houses, and then replace white people with the Chinese, then dot a few housing estates here and there. Voila. An overly simplistic How To Turn London into Hong Kong.




Because of my looks, people automatically group me together with 1.3 billion other people and assume me to know stuff ranging from Chinese consumer culture and education to language and government.

Having spent most of the last decade there, I admit I am not proud of my ignorance and disconnect, esp. now that HK depends more and more on mainland China, economically and politically.

Prior to coming here, few people expected that of me.




However, that is not the case now, and I struggle to explain the difference. The most concise I’ve come up with is: Well, remember that Hong Kong was ruled by the British. But people usually don’t remember, or think that fact is irrelevant to how differently Hong Kong has developed from the rest of the country.




If you haven’t been to either mainland China or Hong Kong, Nasty thinks the difference is most obvious and significant if you travel to the mainland first, and then go to Hong Kong. He thought it was a bit like being in the UK, only with more Chinese people. Suddenly everyone speaks English, he could get around easily, he could get proper western food, and in his words, compared to the mainland, it’s like someone’s lifted a fog and everything is clear and easy again.

Sometimes, I wonder why I get annoyed that people don’t understand. Like a Scot I know who hates it when people ask if she’s English, everyone is entitled to a sense of pride of where they’re from. It’s a case of having people constantly misunderstand a very fundamental part of your identify.

All I’m saying is, I’m just annoyed, and I wish people would understand. If you have a better idea of what I should say, do let me know.