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."
30 October 2008
29 October 2008
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.
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.
26 October 2008
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...
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...
21 October 2008
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 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.
14 October 2008
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...
08 October 2008
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...
But then another one will be born!
Here goes...
07 October 2008
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...
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...
04 October 2008
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.
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.
03 October 2008
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):
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):
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