On having a fortune told...

Setting common sense aside for an hour, I went and had my fortune told last night. There's an area near the Temple Street night market where fortune tellers gather together, sitting in their individual booths surrounded by photographs depicting their satisfied customers. I took a while choosing the right person: the woman chewing corn on the cob was a definite No, as was the ancient old man with the wizened face who looked suspiciously as if he'd accidentally spit all over me when talking. The young women were obviously out, and I walked past the guy with the dodgy looking comb-over as he would be impossible to take seriously. I didn't fancy the idea of a bird being responsible for my future either (one guy has a number of songbirds in an elaborate cage and they apparently send him messages regarding the fortune tellee - or whatever the correct terminology is). Then I found her: a miniature Chinese lady wearing glasses and with a face simply oozing wisdom (so I decided), who was gesticulating dramatically as she talked to another woman.
To cut a long story short (which, incidentally, is exactly what the translator was doing: my fortune teller would speak for a minute with many anxious glances and violent gestures with her pen and forefinger, and this would be whittled down to a single sentence - hope nothing too important was left out), I'm going to die at 86. Which is a fair age, I think, and gives me time to plan a formidable funeral. I apparently need to throw out a good portion of my wardrobe as black is - contrary to my belief - not my colour (neither is green nor yellow, come to that, but I'm inclined to agree with her on that front anyway), and ideally I'll have five or six children. At which point in the conversation, I nearly fell off my chair and had to be reassured that this was only the ideal situation and I didn't have to have that many if I didn't want. You're telling me. Crikey.
Anyway, this is where readers who know me will have a good chuckle at my expense. I've been told I need to learn to be more patient, stop striving to be such a perfectionist and realise that others may not share my high expectations; furthermore, I need to learn to control my anger. Otherwise, and this was repeated constantly, I will not have a good relationship with a man (although, and watch out men of Hong Kong, I will have many boyfriends...). Coming hot on the heels of an email from a past beau - what a wonderful archaic term that is - which essentially pointed this out to me, I have to admit that the whole experience was slightly surreal.
By the by, to all of those who wonder vaguely how I seem to do remarkably little but always appear to have plenty of money: sorry, but not my fault. Not only was I born in the year of the Dog, thus exaggerating this part of my make-up, but it is my destiny. Furthermore, I have many principles and morals that I cling to stubbornly and that, contrary to the belief of many readers, is one of my greatest assets. You have been told.
Oh yes, and in addition, I've not to travel alone for the next two years, putting rather a dampener on plans, but I'm sure there are ways around it. The definition, I feel, of 'travelling alone' can be somewhat flexible for starters, thus accommodating my needs as I choose. If I could avoid remote places on my own for the forseeable future that would also be ideal, and she made specific reference to the fact I mustn't - and here the pen banged down forcefully onto the table and splattered black bursts of ink - go swimming alone. Can't recall any time in the past when I've been entirely on my own on any swimming occasion so feel less limited by this restriction.
All those men born in the year of the Tiger (looking quickly, 1974 is probably the only viable one), watch out for Incoming Jane. However, those from the year of the Rat (1972 and 1984) can relax. Two years that, entertainingly enough, are associated with two particular disasters. This Chinese astrology business really has something to it, you know. Plus, I can't recall ever having relations with anyone from 1974, which just goes to show why nothing has been overwhelmingly successful to date.
I suppose the problem with getting a fortune told is that I'm going to spend the next few years with the thoughts vaguely at the back of my mind, and if I choose to ignore the advice and something goes horribly wrong as I paddle about the sea alone one day I'm going to feel pretty darn stupid. However, if I end up celebrating my 87th birthday having paid close attention to all that the lady said for my whole life, I'll be furious. I'll compromise: get rid of the green and yellow wardrobe elements, and keep the black. Travel alone, but not swim alone. Be more patient with every other student I have. Strive to be perfect only in certain areas of my life - I'll allow all those activities associated with the stereotypical Domestic Goddess to slip slightly.

But, just to be on the safe side, I think I'll stick with the men from 1974.

Brief addition

Thought I'd also mention that it is an absolute travesty that Rhydian didn't win the X Factor. The show is no longer called 'Pop Idol' and therefore is not, apparently, seeking the next Kylie Minogue or Michael Jackson: it is ostensibly seeking someone who has something beyond the norm, who has a talent that cannot be taught and learned.

Leon? I barely knew his name until today, the guy with the frog legs who does a passable imitation of a Michael Buble, who himself does a passable imitation of the likes of Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack greats.

'Be daring, be different' - and the British public rejects you. I look forward to the day I can watch Rhydian perform in the role for which he was made: The Phantom of the Opera will be a phenomenal success with him as the protagonist. In the meantime, I am thankful I'm not in the UK and thus forced to listen to endless renditions of Leon's painful version of, 'If you believe'. (Which, by the by, was a pretty tragic song in the first place).

So there we go. Yes, I watch X Factor - albeit via YouTube - and yes, I have gotten so iritated with it that it warranted a blog posting. Mock me at your peril.

First date frustrations

To begin, I dislike the concept of 'dating' - of setting aside specific time slots to be with a particular person, easing them into a schedule around work and tennis matches and evening classes that lead to yet another utterly pointless qualification. (Diverging slightly, I always liked the remarks on the back of a card I received once. The picture was of a rather tired looking teddy bear, and the caption read something approximating, 'Albert was so shy that he signed up for a course of Assertiveness classes, and on the first evening he walked into the wrong room and can now Get By In Spanish').

Anyhow, yes, from the outset I don't like the general attitude that exists today with regard to dating, an attitude that is born out of a society that has gotten its priorities and values slightly mixed up. I am not suggesting that everyone suddenly forget their responsibilities and leave work in the middle of the day to go gallivanting around the countryside with their hot new secretary; there are few things that annoy me more than people not doing a job properly - days off for what amounts to nothing more dramatic than The Sniffles would soon be stopped if 'sick leave' didn't exist. The fundamental problem is that if you want to have a traditional job, you will necessarily be tied down with some form of timetable, thus the only options available for spending time with another bod are strictly limited to evenings and weekends.

The immediate thought of the majority of people proposing a date with someone is to invite them to dinner. Possibly, if they're being dramatic, dinner will be preceded by a visit to the cinema. Problems with this scheme? Oh, endless... I don't classify sitting in a crowded room having my eardrums blasted senseless as spending Quality Time Getting to Know Someone - the classic argument when I mention this to people is that, well, it gives the couple something to talk about. Dear God, if you need to rely on a series of moving pictures to induce conversation, you should seriously consider popping out and seeing the world to form some vaguely original opinions on something that matters. Borrow shamelessly from others if you must, sit and quote the latest comments in the Economist if you feel that improves your standing in the eyes of anyone else, but you'll be found out eventually. Seriously. Moving onto the dinner... Who chooses the place? What are the chances of you liking the same kind of food? Hell, how tedious to bond over something like a shared admiration for Italian food! Food - and I hate to rain on the parades of many by saying this - is merely fuel. That is all it is. It gets you from one day to the next.

So now, you're sat in a restaurant with someone you barely know. You've established they also think Tom Hanks movies are wonderful, and that you have a shared passion for French cuisine - my word, you're destined to be together for sure. As you sit there firmly on your best behaviour, if only because you are in public, you have to concentrate hard on not getting spaghetti sauce all over your shirt in addition to maintaining a constant stream of lively chat. I don't know how people stand the pressure, or can be bothered to put themselves through such a ritual on endless occasions - all in pursuit of the possibility of finding 'the love of their life'. I think it would be a thoroughly depressing thing to look back on, to think that my Grand Romance started in a crowded room smelling of popcorn and moving onto an equally as crowded room, worriedly dabbing at the corners of my mouth after every mouthful and charging to the bathroom constantly to check pieces of greenery haven't lodged themselves between my teeth. This should be the first night of the rest of your life, not another evening that blends seamlessly into so many others.

There is no guidebook that comes with life: books such as 'The Rules' which offer suggestions to women on how, essentially, to convince some poor sod of a guy that he wants to be with them, should be banned. When did it become understood that 'dinner and drinks' was an acceptable way of introducing yourself to another? Is that really all you are: someone who can sit appropriately in a bar and consume a beverage suitable to the occasion while engaging in polite conversation about your 'interests'? The majority of people, I find, even go armed with suitably entertaining snippets to drop in lightly throughout the course of the evening - the 'date' is, in effect, a routine, a part that has been played out on many previous occasions.

Dating, in the conventional sense of the word, is all very well I suppose for conventional people. At times, I manage to fool myself into believing I could survive in a conventional version of society, that I too could play the game. But after a while I always get frustrated with the rules and become someone who is - so I'm told - impossible to handle. I go through life, I like to think, as if I mean it. When I find myself in a stale situation I acknowledge it and break free: I only get one chance on this earth, and I've little intention of squandering it. When I go through phases of being depressed, it is invariably because I've made the mistake of worrying about the 'tomorrow'. No wonder the majority of people like the conventions a society provides them with: everything down to how you pass time with someone you could spend the rest of your life with is ordered and prescribed. How tedious such lives must be, so lacking in spontaneity and genuine emotions. People have Issues with my emotions: they appear at inconvenient times and upset the balance of things. Why do you need to be surrounded with carbon copies of yourself? Why is anything beyond the ordinary, the commonplace, so difficult to handle?

In terms perhaps those conventionals out there can relate to: life is so much more than a greasy bag of fish and chips. It is a candlelit dinner beneath a star studded sky; a banquet in a room of chandeliers and elegance when this is beyond your means; the lingering kiss retrieving melted chocolate from a lover's navel. Life is tastes and sensations you have never had before, piled one after the other in a never ending jumbled sequence of ecstasy and pain. And if you disagree or don't understand, chances are you are the Conventional to whom I refer.

'Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.'

Some more observations

I fully intend creating two blog postings today - this, where I'll enter a few snippets from HK life, and another which will be a good ol' Ranting Jane style blasting. If the latter doesn't quite get around to appearing, check back in a few days. I now have something approximating Free Time on the odd occasion and plan on using it to good effect. Like, complaining about stuff. The photos that are included on here, by the by, are of Lamma Island - my retreat from the madness of HK proper. Finally got around to snapping a few last night (for those of you on Facebook, I've added more on there and will update that more regularly and fully).

- I had one of my first chances to be a tourist a couple of days ago, and hot-footed it up to one of the principle market areas. Specifically, the Flower Market, the Goldfish Market, the Bird Market, and the somewhat dubiously named Ladies Market. The goldfish market is a surreal world of endless racks of orange fishes swimming around in their individual plastic bags of water that must, surely, be boiling them alive as the sun heats it up. By the by, the Ladies Market is not as you male readers might be eagerly anticipating, rather a plethora of fake designer goods, with a gentle sprinkling of predictable Chinese Tack: paper fans with gaudy designs; plastic Buddhas beaming plumply back at you; the bright coloured dresses that everyone buys then nobody wears...



- A slightly strange thought here, but one that was wandering around my mind nonetheless. It was a particularly toasty day when I went up to the markets, and even the Chinese were breaking out their skirts (in general, they tend to view this time of year as Cold. Strange creatures). This meant I got, whether I wanted it or not, an unrivalled view of the female Chinese leg. Now, the leg of the average English female is puckered and blotchy, riddled with cellulite, lollopping around independent of the owner. The Chinese leg, however, is smooth as marble, white as alabaster - still with a tendency to move around with a life of its own, but in a blubbery rather than bulky sort of manner. At this point, I'll remind you that these observations are highly generalised, thank God for my own leg specimens which thankfully fall into neither category, and move swiftly on.



- My students are wholly incapable of having opinions. On anything. I swear I could turn up dressed as a clown one day and not one of them would bat an eyelid: if the teacher says something is so, it is so, certainly not to be questioned. I'm almost tempted to tell a couple of them something which obviously must be utter rubbish and see if they buy it, dare to confront me on the point. Obviously, I'm one of the more opinionated buggers on the face of the earth and take great delight in foisting my thoughts on anybody who is unfortunate enough to be in my immediate vicinity, so I find it very hard to understand the concept of NOT having opinions. Furthermore, I'm finding it well nigh impossible to create a method of getting these wretched children to learn the art of thinking for themselves - if they don't, they will undoubtedly do badly in their literature exams, which doesn't bode well for the future of my job contract. Suggestions on this front required and appreciated.



- How do people survive working in stores over the Christmas period? I have friends who are currently suffering this particular hell, and I bow down to you. Seriously. I am not here questioning their ability to deal with difficult and inevitably stressed and rude customers, nor doubting that they can serve and package and move on as fast as a whirling dervish. What I want to know is, how do they cope with the ghastly Christmas music that is inflicted on them for hours on end? The shopping malls and stores here are, quite honestly, driving me to the brink of insanity; as a general rule I already have one leg parked over the edge of that particular overhang, and 'rocked up versions' or 'extra tinkly versions' or 'unusual interpretations' of Christmas classics such as Jingle blasted Bells are threatening to push me firmly over that increasingly appealing brink. The only solution is to walk around with my iPod constantly plugged into me, an option not available to those working in the stores. Customer Assistants, I salute you.

And another thing -

Seriously, I just want one thing to go smoothly. Just the one. I don't think that is too demanding, right?
I acquired the keys for my apartment today, ambled my way up the hill and rapidly established they were the wrong set of keys. Informed estate agent over the phone in no uncertain terms that they were going to be the ones who charged up the blasted hill with the correct set of keys - which they did, after telling me with an undue sense of hilarity in their voice that the landlord had changed the locks and, ha ha, they'd forgotten.
So I'm finally allowed into my apartment - that has been, according to contract, painted and cleaned for my arrival. I have never painted a room in my life but am fairly confident that with my eyes shut I could have done a better job. In fact, I'm fairly confident my nine year old niece could have done a better job. Part of me almost feels inclined to paint the damn place again, because I'm going to be spending a year looking at those walls and the mess in some places is going to wind me up no end. On the cleanliness front... I am not the tidiest person of all time, but I do care for a spot of hygiene underneath the teetering piles of books and clothes. I made the foolish mistake of trying to shift the microwave from its ridiculous position and instantly recoiled as my fingers rubbed against what must be a year's worth of grime and grease. The table hasn't even been dusted, for heavens' sake. The drawers have the previous tenant's rubbish in them. When closing the blinds in the bedroom, a puff of dust shot out from between the slats.
And to cap it all... I've spent a fair portion of my last week trawling around the unmitigated hell that is IKEA. I chose a bed - not the cheapest, not the ugliest, a fairly decent, potentially elegant looking bed. I went through the rigmarole of ordering the stupid thing, arranging to get it to the ferry pier at a decent time and acquiring an (unwilling) accomplice to aid me in getting it up the hill. The landlord informs me he's found me a bed. Which sounds like good news, so I speed off to IKEA and cancel the order. Only to be confronted by my future nighttime companion in all its hideous glory. I can't decide whether I should get hold of serious quantities of sandpaper and deal with it that way - hopefully removing the peeling paint and either repainting it or leaving it as plain wood - or demand that he remove the godawful item and I go back to IKEA and sort things out that way. Suddenly, the dodgy bar and dodgy wire-rack seem less of a problem.
I know I can get the place looking decent and generally acceptable, but it is going to require another marathon effort that I really don't have the energy to make. The plan is to investigate the possibility of acquiring a couple of Filipino chicas to clean the place properly (and they wont darn well get paid til I think they have done); I'll pay them what in my world is close to nothing and what in their world is close to a small fortune, and everyone wins. I will feel like the ultimate middle-class prat for paying for cleaners, but if it solves a problem then who cares.
Now all I need to find out is that the internet company wont be able to come on Sunday, which is the only time I'll be able to be in the apartment all day, and therefore I'll exist for the forseeable future in a decidedly disconnected manner. Which is the final nail in the coffin of impending depressive spiral. It is at times like these when I wish I had someone else around to take some of the slack, deal with some of the problems, and get things done. It is at times like these when I start loathing all the guys who didn't stick around because I'm too much like hard work, and I start regretting banishing all the guys who would have stuck around.
However, I exist in the full knowledge that it is at times like when the apartment is done and ready and sorted that I wont want some bloke clogging it up and undoubtedly getting on my nerves, so ultimately I just have to remember that. And on that note, excuse me for a few days while I go beat my head against the brick wall that has been placed in front of me yet again.
Ow.