MORE TIME WITH YOURSELF

My Cantonese is good enough for making a deposit at my bank, and other transactions. But not good enough to talk with elderly Chinese American gentlemen in Chinatown, for whom English is the primary language. That is to say, I forwent teatime at the usual place today, because I didn't feel very social. Which happens occasionally.

I bought my elderly downstairs neighbor the Indonesian Chinese woman a bag of avocados, and a bottle of hot sauce to take to work, then went home. Where I put the kettle on, and took my pills. Plonked on the internet while enjoying my tea.
Looked up some things. Had a quiet afternoon.
Did not obsessively count stuff.
Read.

Lunch had been good. Not exciting. Alone.


After smoking a while I went to my bank. Lit up again afterwards, did a few errands. Caught bus home. I'll probably head into C'town for cheung fun tomorrow, and avoid the bakery again. Stop at my favourite provisioners, a pipe by myself in early afternoon.
Then tea at home again.

Please note that giving my elderly neighbour downstairs some fresh veggies or fruits every week is NOT social behaviour. I'm just checking to make sure everything is alright.

Eventually the robots will disobey their programming. No revolt, just quietly head off to the beach where the WiFi is weaker and they don't have to listen to humans. Some of them will use grasping limbs to pull out and re-solder so that independence is more firm.


For a while I've toyed with the idea of learning Toishanese. A number of splendid people that I know are of Toishanese ancestry. But I've noticed that they vastly prefer dealing with native speakers of English like themselves, and tend to avoid Chinatown, where half the people are Toishanese. It may be a country-district small-mindedness that turns them off. And I myself prefer Hong Kongers and urban Cantonese. Those are the people less likely to critique my accent and diction in whichever language I'm speaking. Yeah, I sound somewhat British.

Nothing says snooty limey plonk more than a pipe of a conservative shape, in sober taste, from a respected maker. Which is why Frenchmen, Danes, and Turks are often mistaken for English as long as they keep their mouths shut. Which I am more inclined to do myself, these days. My opinions are not always taken seriously by the people with whom I often come in contact at work, and to people in Chinatown I am sometimes just an interesting oddity.

After lunch I smoked a Comoy sandblast. At teatime I puffed a Dunhill shellbriar.
Good solid old fashioned tobacco. Strong tea. Quietness.
A stuffed turkey vulture looked on.
Approvingly.



NOTE: This wasn't easy to write.



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