AND HOT BEVERAGES

Went down to Chinatown and dined at a chachanteng. Milk tea, bittermelon omelette and rice. And enjoyed observing the other nearby diners from my corner, though too far away to listen in on their conversations. The nearest couple were Chinese, in their mid-forties, and spoke too softly to make out what they were saying, though the waitress and the cleaning lady over at the counter were loud enough. The young fellow who also works there seems to be a Mandarin speaker, mostly. A mainlander.
His Canto is about on par with mine.

A sour and disapproving woman near the door had ordered food to go, then spent an inordinate amount of time scoping out the specials written on the wall. Which I had already looked at. The snow fish hotpot (雪魚煲仔 'suet yü pou jai') had mildly piqued my interest, the pork shreds with salt pressed vegetable (榨菜肉C 'jaa choi yiuk si') was a standard I've had a number of times elsewhere, and the lamb loin stew with tofu sticks (支竹羊腩煲 'ji juk yeung naam pou') is a winter classic, very warming. The concubine chicken (貴妃雞 'gwai fei kai') was no longer listed; the waitress assured me later that if I wanted that next time, it would be available anyway. They had made room on the board for something else.


The nearest couple previously mentioned were happily stuffing their faces with two regular menu items, one of which was baked porkchop spaghetti with tomato sauce, tonnes of cheese on top, the other being baked ham rice with cream sauce and cheese on top. Good solid fatty Hong Kong urban chow. Heart-attack on a plate.

I miss the years that I could do that without giving my doctor conniptions. Come to think of it, I miss having someone to do that with, more.
I miss having a girlfriend.

Someone with whom to listen to the rain in the middle of the night.

According to the weather report, it will come down in a few hours, and still be soggy weather for most of the day tomorrow. Good thing I'll be at work.
I'd hate to be smoking outdoors in that.


At this time of year, Raynaud's phenomenon is a frequent occurrence, and the regular pain in my fingers is a royal pain in the gand. No, I have not told my apartment mate about that; there is no need for her to know. When smoking my pipe outdoors the blueness of my digits chases me back inside, too often without finishing my pipe. It did so this evening also. Several of my fingers are still grey and tingling as I type this.

["Royal pain in the whatsis": 减少的血流 ('gaam-siu dik huet lau'; decreased blood circulation) in the fingers and toes. When the temperature drops to low fifties my fingers first turn whitish, then greyish, then blue from peripheral cyanosis. It will take nearly an hour of being in a warmer environment for full recovery. During which time they burn.
Gloves help a little bit.]

It is presently mid to high forties.

And further, my legs are stiffer and don't function quite as efficiently in this weather. That, too, is a royal pain in the doohickemajig.

On the plus side, I enjoyed my meal very much.

Happy diners, warm environment, social noise.

Hot milk tea, and a bottle of chili sauce.

A pretense of being human.




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