Blond men and museum pimps

Two weeks ago, out with my HK friend visiting from France, I was sat alone outside Cityhall waiting for her when this dodgy looking guy snuck up behind me and suddenly said, “It doesn’t hurt to smile you know.”

I looked at him, “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So what’s up? Why are you feeling so down?”

“I’m not down. I’m just waiting for a friend. And my ankle hurts like shit coz I’ve sprained it. What are you doing around?”

I pulled my bag into me and hugged it tight.

“Oh, we’re just trying to cheer people up.”

He had platinum blond hair, gelled up Beckham-mohawk style, wore a trench coat and sucked on a cigarette.

“Who’s we?”

“Oh, me and this other one.”

“So what, you’re from some organization or something?” Thinking that maybe he’s from some wierd church group.

“Yeah, we’re from TLC.”


“Tender Loving Care. Never heard of it?”

“Yeah right.”

“Haha. Yeah, it’s not real.”


He told me he’s from Scotland, but he doesn’t have a Scottish accent at all.

I know because I totally understood what he was saying.

I never figured out what he wanted. And no, trust me, he wasn’t just being nice.

I realize that two Chinese girls walking around London attracts more unwarranted attention than going about with Nasty (duh) or even just going out alone.

I think walking around with maps and a girl born with a camera attached to her hand (no, not me) makes us tourist idiots.

Just outside my apartment building early one morning, we get shouts and calls from a gang of youths. No. I had no idea what they were saying. It’s probably better that way.

On the Southbank, this museum-cum-attraction pimp under a bridge ran up to us shouting “KON-NI-CHI-WAAA!”

“We’re not Japanese.” I replied.

“Oh, where are you from?”

“Hong Kong.”

He gave us a puzzled look. “How do you say hello in Hong Kong then?”

I tell him. Then he says, “How do you say goodbye then?”

I tell him. And he frowns, “Gosh I can’t remember that!” And he went off.



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