Home run

My time in Europe has been filled with babies, it seems.

First there was my cousin's huge baby bump, although perhaps that doesn't count as a baby, as such. Then, after another few days of culinary magic at my parents', I met baby Victor, who was all smiles and engaged the hormone bomb that has now made me desperate to start a family.

I had taken the TGV up to Paris to meet up with Krusty for his office party, which, by the way, was pants. The venue was beautiful - it took place in the Maison des Ingénieurs, in the 8th arrondissement, just behind the Musée d'Orsay - and I felt privileged to see it, as I am clearly never going to be an engineer, and I doubt those doors would ever be open to me in normal circumstances...

Anyway, apart from the beautiful plaster mouldings, the party left much to be desired. As we arrived, we stood in front of the bar sipping a mini glass of bad quality champagne as a very loud jazz band played to an unappreciative audience, and then waited a full 45 minutes before we could get another one. The bottles were only being opened two by two it seemed. There were 220 of us. I thought engineers were supposed to be good at maths...

Meanwhile, a tray of tiny croque monsieurs passed us by, with no other food entering our field of vision for the next 2.30 hours... I mean, after the Michelin starred event last year, I was very, very disappointed. So after one and a half glasses of champagne and at least 25 people saying "Hmmm, that's an interesting shoe", we left to find our room at the Lutetia.

Listen to me, a free flight to Paris and a night at the Lutetia, and I still find the courage to complain...

Anyway, the next day we travelled back down to the Ile de Ré, where I managed to tie up a lot of loose ends concerning the wedding, Krusty managed to say "How much does it cost?" a lot, and many a spreadsheet-induced argument ensued. We still had a great time, sampling our wedding menu on my birthday, celebrating fake xmas on Sam's birthday, knitting strange, cartoonish characters by the fire with my grandmother, and even catching a STUNNING sunset on the beach. I love the Ile de Ré in winter - there are close to no tourists, the air is pure and pinching, and yet the sky is blue and beautiful and the empty beaches are misty and poetic. It's a shame it's quite cold, otherwise we might have chosen December to get married instead of June.

And so, after seven days of more scrumptious food and silly dancing, we flew the worst airline in the history of aviation back to London. Those of you who have had the pleasure of flying Ryanair will have recognised which company I was referring to, as the mélange of infuriating service, maddening music and unrealistic weight restrictions leave an indelible mark on any traveller's psyche. I have never been so angry. Especially as while I was transferring weight to my hand luggage I managed to drop my bag on my toes, breaking them yet AGAIN! (That's three times now... I'm starting to think I will be wearing my sexy Manolo Pas-chics to my wedding...)

We arrived in London despite the horrible journey, though, and as we drove back to Krusty's parents house, including a trip over Tower Bridge, all of the memories of our first encounter came flooding back, and the nostalgia kicked in big time. A few roast dinners later and I was truly longing to come back. We met up with our friends who had just had twin girls, the couple who were there the day we met, and even Babymomma and her brilliant, beautiful brood, and suddenly London looked as appealing as a giant Quality Street. The purple one. With the nut inside.

And yet the day soon came when we had to leave, and on to the next cheap airline we went, scrabbling with our fellow travellers, who were as much the victims of the free seating policy as we were, even if I did have a crazy boot to prove that I needed some space, time and a guarantee no one would step on my foot. But we had no time for precaution, our flight was late and we had only minutes to make the connection for our flight from Paris to Hong Kong. Minutes were all we needed to spot my ex-boyfriend, though, who had oddly chosen the day we were flying back to Hong Kong for his big move to... Hong Kong!

I didn't find out about the move from him though - as I slowed down to say hello, he actually RAN away from me! Yes, a man I spent three years living with, including one year in Tokyo, actually ran away from me rather than say hello... But then he must have been in a hurry to grab his new wife, as they soon passed us again, and this time he threw me a smile which I could only interpret as victorious. He was proud to have found solace in the arms of a Chinese porcelain doll. And good for him.

We didn't have time to talk to him anyway, as most of Krusty's office was on the plane with us, and we therefore had to do the whole chatty sociable thing that I hate doing on planes. As I am sure everyone else does. I suppose we should just all ignore each other in transit, and be honest about not wanting to make small talk on board...

Then again, who am I to talk about being sociable, when I have written more here about being on the plane than being in the cities we were visiting? What does that say about me?!

I suppose the insane jet lag that has hit us both has a lot to do with my obsession with the flights. But as tired as I am (this time jet lag feels like having the flu), I am still happy. After spending three weeks staying in other people's houses, I feel completely at ease. Sitting smugly on MY sofa, watching MY television, next to MY dinner table, knitting quietly with a huge smile on my face...

So very sorry, parents, I miss you loads, but right now, I love being where I am.

OK, pictures of the lovely babies...

My cousin's giant bump, nicknamed Lucienne until she comes out



Marvelous Victor, in Paris



The adorable twins, Ana and Inès




Last but not least, the perfect Felix and Jasmine, aka Squealix and Jam-beans




And, for good measure, a baby Krusty...



Now who wouldn't want to have babies after that?!

Stomach seduction

After a few croissants/slices of comte/glasses of wine, I am reconciled with France. They really have the tools to make you forget, well, everything!

Travels with my poncho

On the day of my departure to France, I woke up to the sound of Hong Kong serenading me lest I forget its beautiful voice on my travels. The song went a little like this: "And then I go and spoil it all, by saying something stupid like BANG BANG BANG."

Thus I willingly made my way to the airport, wrapped in my wonderful cashmere poncho, bought in Beijing for the occasion. But despite my best limping efforts, I didn't get upgraded, and in fact I was punished for even thinking I could be...

First the plane was delayed by two hours because of a technical problem. I don't really like getting on planes at the best of times, but when I know it has a fault that might kill me, well... We got on to find that the ventilation was broken, so it was boiling hot and almost impossible to breathe. The cashmere poncho quickly came off to make room for air...

Then, when the plane (which must have been 40 years old) rattled off, we were told that the lights were broken, and that therefore there would be no hot service for health and safety reasons.

And so I spent the flight in the dark, at the back of the plane (because when a person asks for a upgrade because two of their toes are broken, that's where you put them - right at the back, so that they have to hobble all the way down the aisle...) wrapped in a Z shape around an armrest that wouldn't go up.

We arrived two hours late in Paris, where the walkway was broken, and we waited in the dark while they fixed it. The flight attendants, meanwhile, thought it might be a good idea to flash pocketlights in our face to complete the feeling of a terrorist hijack.

The queue to get out of the plane lasted a long while too, as just one woman was checking everyone's passport. A long hobble later I grabbed my bag, made my way to the taxi queue, where I was told the traffic was too bad to get me to the train on time, so I jumped in the metro, which slowly filled up until I was told I was being very inconsiderate bringing a suitcase into rush hour pandemonium. As a woman pushed my case onto my broken toes, I couldn't have agreed more.

I bumped past another hundred people on their way to work, got to Montparnasse, dragged my case into the lift, where I managed to have a big argument with a guy in a wheelchair who after tutting, I couldn't resist asking what his problem was. He told me I had no right to use the lift and that my silly invalid boot didn't mean I was handicapped...

I limped down the platform, where I saw the train master smile at me as the door closed and he sarcastically said "Oh it's closed, what a shame". I had to buy another ticket for 100 euros, because of course that's the price for last minute bookings. Right then, I HATED Paris.

Desperate, I ran to the toilet only to find it was exceptionally closed that day for renovation, and desperate for a cheer up, I called my parents. My dad's reply to the situation: "you should have planned better."

I burst out in tears, and as I cried by the phone, a homeless man came up to me, said "Don't cry miss" and hugged me as I worried about the hundreds of diseases he was passing on to me.

I kindly dismissed him, got called a liar by a beggar who I'd told I had no money after she asked me for change three times (each time as she saw me buy a magazine, a hot chocolate, and a croissant), and then got told off by a waiter who said that the table I had chosen to wait at for the next train incovenienced him.

I have no idea how I could have lived in Paris and not gone crazy. It's true what they say - Paris is the best city in the world, it's just a shame it contains so many Parisians...

My day so far

This morning I was standing waiting for a taxi when I realised just how noisy the street actually was. It's odd that I am so used to the boisterous nature of this city now that I don't really notice it anymore, but today I had one of those out of body experiences where you realise just how insane the world surrounding you is. I took a picture on my mobile phone to demonstrate my point - the man pushing the trolley of dried seafood boxes is in fact in the middle of the road, behind me is an open hole in the tarmac where sparks are flying, the tram comes past while a bus overtakes... Anyway, you can imagine the volume of sound at this precise moment...



And just when I thought the streets of Hong Kong couldn't get any crazier, I arrived in Times Square, close to my office, and saw the Christmas decorations for 2008: a selection of creations from local celebrity illustrator Carrie Chau, with overblown little girls blowing trumpets with strange hats under gothic bare white trees. So strange. And yet - perhaps I have been here too long now - I found this really enchanting, and it made me dream much more than a green fir tree with red baubles would have. Have I gone mad?

The beast's baptism

Yesterday morning I got up at a leisurely hour for the first time in weeks. The sun was shining, everything was perfect. I stepped in the shower, thinking about what we should do for the day, but then I stepped out to a whole new reality... There was Krusty, with a huge grin on his face, introducing me to a giant army green gas ring burner that he had had time to buy while I was washing.

I spotted the cool Colombians Paola and Ignacio in the background, and understood that this was for the Paella Ignacio had gracefully offered to cook for us the next day. Just cooking it the normal way wouldn't have been enough for Krusty, though. He wanted more than just normal flames.

And so we set off to find a pan that would fit the burner. Wandering through the back streets of Sheung Wan, past the noodle shops and the bird sellers, P&I introduced us to a fabulous kitchen shop that seemed to have every pot under the sun... except for the one we needed of course... As if that's ever stopped Krusty! As we gave up, he disappeared into the back with the shop keeper, and came back out brandishing a huge tin, saying "It's perfect!"

And it was. Today we made paella for the masses, eating delicious helpings of it ourselves, but the eight of us not even managing to finish the dish.

The beast has had a Spanish baptism, now we have to find some other uses for it. We are thinking of starting a cooking club - each week someone finds a different use for the pan. Krusty has already declared that his week he will cook English fry-up for 10...

Ah the things you can do on a rooftop in Hong Kong...

Today's taxi ride

As I jumped into today's taxi, the driver said “Welcome missy!” and I felt so happy. The radio was off, the phone was not attached to his ear, and he said thank you about ten times before we set off.

I really needed that kind of refuge this morning, too – the little boy in my building who recently told me I was very big decided to go one step further, asking me during our usual lift ride, “Are you a witch?”

I almost replied “Yes and I am going to put a curse on you” but I decided against it. Although as I was waiting in the middle of the street between roadworks, speeding buses, trams, and trolleys full of dried seafood deliveries, I was already drawing up the recipe. “Tail of newt, fin of shark, tail of turtle...”

Cackle cackle...

Warning: intolerant rant coming up

Taxis are very, very cheap in Hong Kong. So cheap that to avoid someone stepping on my toes and breaking them again, I have been avoiding public transport and paying the 5 pounds a day needed to get to and from work in a red Toyota Comfort.

I feel guilty indulging this way, but not only is it necessary when I see the crammed buses and trams going past me while I sit in air conditioned luxury, it has also afforded me a cute snapshot of HK society.

Some drivers are polite, overly so in some cases. Others scream conversations through the radio. One morning, a driver was turning those metallic Chinese balls in his hand, proving that those souvenirs people bring back from Asia aren't complete tourist traps after all. Most of them have their radios on very loud (and anyone who has ever heard Cantonese radio will know how annoying this can be first thing in the morning – they like to put a song on, and then make comments all the way through it). Most are also on the phone, so as well as the radio I get to listen to loud Cantonese conversations, too. And the one I am typing this blog from has a row of statuettes of grotesque, cartoonish women with ginormous breats, one of which has a pair that jiggles with the motor's vibrations...

All of them make me nauseous really, or is that just the fact that I am using my computer in a moving vehicle?

Or perhaps it just because I am intolerant. Krusty tells me I have an illness which makes me hear more than others. Maybe. But I just think people are a little rude sometimes...

My bootie

I have been meaning to lose a bit of weight for the wedding, and now that the depressed guilty eating has subsided (I'll never make it... ooh is that cake?!), I have found the way to diet: I don't have time to eat anyway!

I have been coming home at around 9/10pm, when it's not 11, and then finishing off jobs I had started for other people. Sleep has become a rare, precious commodity, as has free time for that matter. Even if I do become an anorexic waif for the big day, the bags under my eyes are going to be so black no one will notice...

Which is why I had such a great time last night! Two other girls and I got together to have a Stitch and Bitch, and it was exactly what I needed. Apart from the fact that one of the girls taught me how to knit little booties for babies, and now my hormones are a'raging. And right now I have absolutely no problem with the idea of being a desperate housewife, knitting, cleaning, and cooking all day...

But look how cute! (I didn't make these particularly good ones I'm afraid, my "teacher" did...)

No time to blog

I am SHATTERED...

Krustyism

Today's cute Krustyism:

When I called him this morning, utterly depressed because a little boy in a lift had said to his father "I think that lady is very big"... Krusty said "You're not a giant Asian woman, you're a petite Amazonian one."

No love for an invalid

I'm at the office, in the new job, my throat's hurting, my stomach has finally given in to the usual "first days at work" stomach bug, I have a terrible ulcer on the roof of my mouth, and my toes are broken. But strangely enough, I'm happy.

I'm not getting any love from the Hongkongers in the street, quite the opposite: most of them overtake and push me out of the way, tutting impatiently behind me as I hobble down the street. They look at me as if I ought to be apologising for being in their way. I haven't even tried taking public transport yet, I'm too scared someone's going to step on my foot...

At work all is well, although I have three weeks to do what would usually take three months, and am trying to clean up all of the mess left behind by my previous incarnation, who has since confessed that she left a mess on purpose to spite the boss. Thanks.

I have interviewed a few millionaires, courted a few prs, written a ton of features, and nagged everyone a helluva lot, and although the big boss has said to me "I like nags, they get things done", I am pretty sure everyone hates me for bossing them around so much. I am also coming in early and leaving late (tonight I have to wait until 9 in the office to interview some private jet owner or other), I hardly see Krusty at all anymore, but again, I am inexplicably happy. Perhaps it's just the insane pleasure that bossing everyone around gives me, I don't know.

In any case, let's hope the honeymoon period lasts, because if it doesn't, this is the worst job in the world and it'll be pretty easy to sink into a full blown depression.

Or perhaps just looking at my desktop's wallpaper is what is making me so happy. Take a look for yourself: it's a picture I took once I had climbed (yes, literally, climbed) the Great Wall of China, in Mutianyu. It was so steep in parts that I had to use my hands to reach the next step, ladder-style, but when I got to the top, my heart ringing in my ears at about 200bpm, my hair stuck to my forehead with sweat, I found complete tranquility and a stunning vista of autumn leaves swaying in the cool breeze. My breath wasn't short from the climb; it had only been taken away as I looked out over the kilometres and kilometres of a structure that took 270 years and many, many lives to build. It's quite amazing.

Pac man, the new job, and the two broken toes

While I was visiting the faaabulous Victor in Beijing (a trip I will blog as soon as I can keep my eyes open for long enough to write about it), I got an offer for a job I could not refuse. I didn't apply for it, I wasn't looking for it, but it just landed on me in the middle of the financial implosion of the rest of the planet, with amazing working conditions and an impossible to turn down paycheck. And so, I said yes.

I came back and immediately started obsessing about it, until I realised that every single new job I have ever started has come with a bout of illness attached so that my first day in a new office is usually spent in pain/coughing/on the toilet. The first day (tomorrow) slowly approached, but my tonsils seemed fine, my stomach too, and I started to think that maybe I had broken the curse.

Happy to have escaped my destiny, I promptly went to the roof to make some room for the 50 odd people who were to come over on Saturday night for a "Celebrities in the 80s" party. I do love a bit of fancy dress. Mr Krusty was out, but that has never stopped me from doing anything before, so I lifted the heavy outdoor table (made of ceramic? or concrete? or stone? I don't know... but it's heavy) and it kindly detached from its base and landed square on my foot, smashing into several pieces in the process.

I ran around the roof in pain, screaming obscenities as I realised that we didn't have a table for the night's festivities, without worrying too much about the foot. But the pain didn't go away. Krusty came back (after a telephone conversation to him in the shop he was in which roughly went, me: "Krusty, I think I have broken my foot", him: "I know! Aren't these cheeses amazing?") and as he played the website for me that took you through the steps to test whether you had any broken bones, a cloud of doom shifted over my head. Here was the feared medical condition that would marr my first day in the new job. Damnit.

I rushed to hospital, had an x-ray, was told that I had broken two toes, and then I was informed that it was Saturday night, and the hospital simply does not do casting, splintering, or even crutches on Saturday night, I would simply have to come back on Monday during office hours... I started screaming (literally), until a rugby man with a leg at a 90 degree angle from his body came in to be told the same thing. I decided my toes weren't that bad after all.

I hobbled home, stepped into the Macgyver splint that Krusty had made me with a towel, an aluminium lasagna tray, and a roll of cellotape, and then hung the cherries around my neck to join my fellow fancy dressers in our collective costume: the pac man game.

I looked the exact opposite of elegant, felt the exact opposite of fit and healthy, but I had a simply amazing night in the company of Billy Idol, Cindy Lauper, Miss Piggy, and Popeye. A classic night.

And tomorrow I start my new adventure at the hospital, to get a splint. At least it's less embarrassing than a stomach bug...

The diary of a married woman

The first line of my journal on the day after our wedding is: “so far, not too impressed with the whole marriage thing.”

The ceremony took place in a lawyer's office, surrounded by green binders with gold lettering saying things like “Rich Chance Ltd”, or “Honest Asia Company”. We very quickly recited the text saying that we were now our respective lawful wedded husbands and wives, cracked a few jokes with my fabulous friend Victor's dad, who was marrying us, and I suddenly found myself to be quite cynical and totally unromantic, saying, when Krusty took my hand, “Are you scared or something?”, and then “So, how much do we owe you?” But then we left the “Grand Building” (appropriate, no?), floating counter-current on a cloud through Lan Kwai Fong, while others rushed home from work.

I had spent the afternoon sticking flowers in my hair, so I felt a little self-conscious, but a glass of Veuve and a classy side helping of Lay's Sour Cream and Onion helped calm my nerves. We were on the roof of the Fringe Club, where I have so many good memories and, because of its “cultural” status, I was hoping not to run into anyone, having kept the wedding a secret. How wrong I was! Of the uncountable thousands of bars and restaurants in Hong Kong, three of our friends had chosen this precise spot for their pre-prandials.

We soon left for dinner, anyway, just below at M at the Fringe. I reasoned that the M must stand for Marriage, and that since this was the place that apparently serves the best suckling pig in the city (Krusty's favourite dish) I was already being a good wifey by choosing this place for our first meal as a married couple. So we filled our bellies and made silly shadow puppets on the chairs, giggling until everyone in the restaurant had realised that this was a “special” occasion. At 10pm though, exhausted from a week of sleepless work nights, Krusty asked to go home. I reluctantly agreed, and we went off to our “wedding night” – turns out that meant Krusty checking his computer, telling me that I was now part of his chattle, that the champagne had cost a little too much that night, and that I needed to be quiet now so that he could sleep.

The next morning, at the airport, realising that this wedding (although not the big day) meant more to me than it did to him, Krusty attempted to make amends, saying he would treat me to a lovely wedding breakfast. He disappeared off to the Marco Polo lounge (to which I do not have access), and came back with a feast of cream crackers, cheddar, and Fanta, saying that if he hadn't been a man the night before, he would at least be the “provider” now. How could I stay angry when he was trying so hard to make me feel better? Why couldn't I stay angry when I really, desperately wanted to?

As we landed in Cebu, Krusty had sung Madonna's “Holiday” enough times to wipe my tears completely dry, and I realised that the most important thing in our relationship was that Krusty can make me laugh, no matter what. With that I think we can survive anything. From there we resolved to make our Funnymoon as funny as humanly possible.

As we drove from the airport to the resort, the guilt started kicking in as we were passing wooden huts lined with families of dirty children with ripped T-shirts and I realised I was worrying about whether my silk dress would be creased or not... What a spoiled brat. The rain was making me very, very depressed, and I felt like I had no right to be depressed, really... A confusing state of mind.

To forget the weather we played a few rounds of ping pong, but determined not to stay cooped up, we jumped into the pool. Then we realised we had become walking lightening rods, and so began one of many hysterical moments in the pool, the hq of the funniness of our moon. To continue soaking, we retreated to our room's bath, an outdoor tub surrounded by pebbles (also called a "Kneip" pool, hum hum, coincidence?). Krusty left the room shouting from behind the wooden shutters that separated us that I would soon see that he is in fact a romantic. He came back with two flutes and a bottle of bubbly, and we truly relaxed for the first time in days. Not that it could last, of course; opening my eyes after a few minutes, I spotted an army of mosquitoes above our heads. Bathing outside might seem like a nice idea, but we it meant that we had literally landed in a glorified mosquito nightclub. Attractive light source? Check. Stagnant bath water? Check. Hot, humid air? Check. We were the guests of honour at the mosquito banquet. Or rather, we were the plat du jour.

We hopped out, deciding that if it was going to be a case of eat or be eaten, we had better run along to dinner, where we felt just a little lonely. As we had come out of season, the resort was practically empty, save a handful of Japanese gentlemen who arrived alone but soon were in the company of lovelies they had found in neighbouring villages...

The next morning, as we opened the shutters to a big blue sky, we jumped out of bed to explore the resort's beach and the private island it boasted in the brochure. Turns out, “natural” meant “we mashed up some shells and blasted it onto some concrete to create a completely man-made, gritty, dirty beach”. Snorkeling around the island we also found out that the local fishermen had killed most of the corals by dynamite fishing, so that all that was left was a bit of seaweed and some lonely surviving fish. A little depressed, we swam back to shore, and realised that the umbrella huts lining it summed the place up – some thinning grass laid on a plastic trunk, complete with broken intercom for cocktail orders. Looks natural from afar, but is the exact opposite up close.

At least we had the place to ourselves, which was convenient, not least because the clouded sky had scorched us way more than expected and we didn't need any more embarrassing looks than we were already getting. We had sizzled and now were both very much well done. At the beginning of our stay I was getting a lot of attention, hearing a lot of “guapa” as I walked past. But that day a different word was being whispered, one I am guessing to have meant “lobster”, or something similar. The usual “Welcome Mam Jesca, Welcome Sir Steffy” of the morning definitely had an undertone of restrained laughter.

The rest of the holiday we spent messing around in the pool once we had established, after a tour of the island, that there really wasn't much else to do. (The highlight of our adventure outside of the resort was the shooting range our driver took us to. Turns out I'm quite handy with a sniper rifle, but that's another story...). (On that note, Krusty was rubbish at shooting, which makes me think that all of his hours practising on his computer games have been worthless, which also confirms that although he thinks that the time he put in on the airflight simulator qualifies him to land a plane, I'll be jumping out of the emergency exit before I ever let him be in charge of my jumbo jet...).

Anyway, our time in Cebu was a little light on the exploration front. The thing is, when Magellan landed in the Philippines and converted everyone to Catholicism, a tiny bit of architectural development occurred. But when the colon arrived on Mactan, the island we were staying on, chief Lapu-Lapu only went and killed him on the spot, protecting his place from any sort of colonialism and therefore, in a way, construction. The people are lovely, the mangoes are delicious, but there really isn't much to see apart from a few huts and some large concrete hotels. It's a real shame. Perhaps things were different before, I don't know. But it felt like we were about 40 years late.

Despite all of this, although we weren't quite laughing out loud on the way home from our Funnymoon, we definitely had enormous grins on our face. I suppose that's the thing with funnymooners, they only need each other to have a good time.

Throughout the holiday and ever since, people have been asking me how it feels to be married. I suppose I should feel different, but honestly I just feel the way I do after a birthday, when someone asks how it feels to be a year older – it feels exactly the same as the day before, just with more flowers and more champagne. Perhaps I'll feel differently when I am wearing “the” dress. All I know is that for now, being married feels right, so very right. Oh, and it burns a little around the tanning line of my swimming costume.

The best thing about being married...

...is that the house is always full of flowers! Ahhhh if only life could bring a new bouquet of beauties to my doorstep every day of my life...

I give you Mr and Mrs Krusty Krustofferson, from La Gitane doing her hair alone at home to the happy couple having champagne and dinner at the Fringe

Bye Bye Miss Lagitane, Hello Mrs Krusty

I am sitting here in my "wedding dress" and I just thought I'd write one last blog as a single woman. I know it makes marriage sound like a terminal illness, but right now, that's what it feels like. I feel like 30 minutes from now, a piece of myself will die.

But then another one will be born!

Here goes...

Give me a break-out

Well, today is my last day of being single, or as the wedding papers poetically put it, my last day of being a spinster. Tomorrow is the big day for Mr and Mrs Krusty Krustofferson, or rather the "little" day, as we are saving all of our celebratory juices for next year's "real" wedding in France.

I was fine with the whole idea of treating this as an administrative procedure, just signing a piece of paper, not a big deal, but as the hours trickle past until tomorrow, 6pm in the Grand Building (how appropriate), I am starting to get a little fluttery. Not scared, but I almost feel sad that we didn't make a bigger deal of this. It's better this way, but I suppose it's normal to have a last minute "moment".

And of course, stressing about this and not being able to stop thinking about it has led my face to do what it does best: breaking out with a GIANT spot right by my lip. That's going to look good on the photos!

Now, where's my photoshop retouching manual...

Phase one complete

Well, I've done it. In a very spontaneous, spur of the moment type situation, I let a woman apply her measuring tape to me, write down the horrifically high numbers, and then I paid her for what will be, in a few months hopefully, my wedding dress.

Phase one of operation three-tiered cake complete.

I just hope the result is as good as my incredibly detailed descriptions to the lady... Perhaps I should worry that the building I went in to to find her was call the "Tat Building" and the company's name is "Commix"? Or perhaps the fact that it is THREE times under budget should have made me think "you get what you pay for" instead of "I can get many, many more bottles of champagne with the difference"...?

Time will tell.

Fig

Typhoon Higos, the SEVENTEETH to hit us this year, is on its way for the weekend. Even worse than that? It's coming from the Phillippines, where we are headed on holiday on Wednesday. Better prepare the playing cards, looks like we'll be spending a lot of time indoors...

Hong Kong's burning

The pinstripe suits are all still wandering around with stupefied looks on their faces, and the words "money", "cutbacks" and "savings" are on everyone's lips, but that didn't stop Hong Kong from lighting up for National Day yesterday. The city was on fire, literally, with a firework display that lasted... 23 minutes! I wonder how much cash was burnt...

It was beautiful though, I have to admit. And we were extremely lucky to have been invited to watch it all from J+J's friend Alan's 72nd floor flat on the harbourfront, which allowed us to actually be almost higher than the fireworks themselves. Nice. My favourite bit, though, strangely, was not the display, but seeing the IFC surrounded by smoke. It really was just like in a film... See for yourself (you might notice that I got a bit carried away with the blurry effect, it looked very arty at the time...oh well):

Sunstroke paradise

After throwing up most of today, I now feel well enough to post the photos of our lovely hike at Yellow Dragonfly Waterfall yesterday.

Between Stephen almost dying on the way up and me almost needing to be hospitalised on the way down with sunstroke, I guess we won't be invited on any more hikes anytime soon! How am I going to lose the 300 kilos I need to shed before my wedding now...?!

The hunt for the perfect hat starts now.

But then he isn't...

This picture makes me melt. I don't know why. Krusty's the exact opposite of a robot around babies...

Krusty dreams of electric sheep

Krusty informed me this morning that he really wasn't bothered if our wedding was just saying "I do" and then going home to watch a DVD, or preferably the Bloomberg channel. When I explained how unromantic this was and how I didn't want to look back 30 years from now and realise I had watched the stock markets on my wedding night, he said he saw my point and was willing to "switch on" his emotions. Once he had "made the necessary emotional connections" he then started discussing what romantic places to remember we could go to. I am going to be married to a robot.

At 8 o clock, 8 minutes and 8 seconds (HK time), on 08.08.2008

In a photo booth in Gare de Lyon...

Lost in Tai Tam

Last weekend, we went to see what a tree looks like.

In Hong Kong it's very easy to forget that the world should actually look green, not metallic and shiny, so people go on hikes to immerse themselves in Nature and realise that this city actually has a very diverse landscape.

We started at Wong Nai Chung Gap Reservoir, which was built in 1899, as Caroline told us, brandishing her "Serious Hiker's Guide". We can't have been that "serious" though, as we had stupidly decided to start our hike at midday, not realising that after 10 minutes walking along the trail, we would be drenched in sweat, and feeling like we were walking in a giant sauna. Silly silly.

It didn't matter though - we saw dragonflies of all the colours of the rainbow, streams and lakes (including one in which, urban legend has it, a man got rid of his piranhas, creating a increasing local population of the carnivorous fish...), forests and beaches. It was a lovely break from the jackhammers.

We also met a group of boys who were jumping off all of the bridges they could find, in real Jackass fashion. Completely fearless. In fact, when I mentioned to one of them that the water they were jumping into might be infested with piranhas, the only reply I got was, "coooool". I wish I could be so careless sometimes...

At the end of our hike, we sipped Pimms on South Bay Beach. You can imagine how hard it was to make our way back to dried seafood street after that...