Sometimes I wish there were a happy pork chop song. If there were, I would sing it. It's not per se the taste, though scrumpty, but the ambiance, that fills me with contentment. Old school C'town, clean and comfortable, with a television in the corner tuned to a station that plays HK serials, Cantonese news, and Chinese-oriented infomercials. Thanks to which I now know that 'pomegranate' in Chinese is 紅石榴 ('hung sek lau'), and very healthy. Just like Japanese green plum extract. Which enhances beauty and endurance.
[Read more about Asian plums here: Wikipedia-Prunus mume.]
Perhaps I should look for plum stuffs at the herbalists.
As I suspect that I am not beautiful enough.
Actually, I do wonder about my appearance. This year an exceptionally frequent occurrence is people offering their seat to me on the bus. Even people who are close to my age! And I am not old. So I might look a right wreck, decrepit and venerable.
But in the mirror I do not see that at all.
Yes, I no longer look like the smart-aleck thirty year-old of several years ago, but I sure as heck don't see an antique. It's probably all the grey hair, and the air of pissy old scrawn. They should look at my skin instead.
And the beard is actually young in shape, if not in hue.
My cheeks are still soft. Almost girlish.
Plus my eyes sparkle.
My hands are still nice. Voluptuous.
All of you are either super-respectful and my epic aura makes you wilt, or you've all got your screws seriously loose.
Maybe it's my old grannie gloves. But those keep Rainaud's condition from making my fingers look like I'm turning into a zombie.
It could be the lighting on these new buses. Or maybe I just smell bad and look total psycho, and y'all want to escape.
That's gotta be it. Not the age thing.
FOON SOOK SOOK?
So far only little children ever call me 'Ah sook' (阿叔).
Besides my apartment mate, no adults have.
So it can't be my years.
貛叔叔。
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