UNDISCOMBOBULATED, MORE OR LESS

Earlier today my apartment mate, who had taken a day off, had suggested that we go out to lunch together at a nearby restaurant we both like. She brought this up before ten in the morning, which nicely illustrates that people of Cantonese ancestry are conditioned to think about food at hours when normal folks (Dutch Americans) would not even conceive of that.
I normally don't start feeling peckish until after twelve. When I get up at around six A.M. food is not part of the programme. Pills, strong coffee, and then walk around the neighborhood puffing my pipe. Solid sustenance doesn't cross my mind for several hours.

Years ago there was a newspaper, and there were no pills.

At around twelve o'clock she asked if we could do lunch some other time. She had decided that she simply wanted to spend all day padding around in her jammies hugging her stuffed critters and watching British mystery episodes instead. Okay by me. I'll revert to my usual Tuesday routine. Late lunch at the place where the boss-lady seems to have given up on telling me that I shouldn't smoke, because she realizes that I won't quit, and all the uncles smoke too. So it's battling the rapids struggling upstream on that. And there are bears on both banks. I always load up a pipe for outside afterwards when I'm there.

At around tea-time I swung into the place and dined on shrimp and vegetable fried rice-stick noodles (遠菜鮮蝦炒河 'yuen choi sin haa caau ho') with a cup of hot milk tea.
Lit up as soon as I left, after dawdling over tea. Wonderful.

Several hours later I was back in the neighborhood with a different pipe. And surprised to see the same cluster of older aunties passing down the street, on the opposite side, as had been eating together earlier. They were much more lively. I suspect that they may have celebrated their reunion with perhaps a thimble-full of spirits, discreetly tossed back. Or two.

About ten minutes after I finished my pipe the bookseller arrived. As we walked to the burger joint he mentioned a group of young skate-boarders on the bus who had prettily thanked the driver when they got off to rocket downhill. It had been cute.

The karaoke bar looked civilized when we passed, but an hour later it sounded ghastly. Doleful Cantopop. Hard pass. Life is too short for painful moaning.

The bail-out bar proved more hospitable. No singing.
Irish whiskey, and a cup of tea.
Much better.



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