MOSTLY CLOUDY LIKE PORRIDGE

Perhaps I should go over to Chinatown for a bowl of congee today. The weather of this past week suggests comfort food. The storminess of the last few days, unusual in its intensity, appears to have subsided. Which, given the discomfort my feet felt, is quite welcome.

Eyebrows would definitely shoot up if I soaked my feet in hot porridge in public. So instead, I'll soak a yautiu. While ingesting the porridge in the accepted fashion.

My feet, which do not like cold, have been acting angry lately.
If they suffer, they will scheme to make me suffer.
They have succeeded. Quite well.

My feet are determined to have a confrontational relationship with me. The circulation down there is not optimum, and they resent that. I attempt to placate them with two pairs of socks between sometime in December and the end of March, but they still object. "Put us in hot water, you capitalist bastard" they scream, while rioting podally in front of my consulate.

Yesterday I had various errands to do. The pavement is cement. It transmits cold admirably. Which envelopes the feet, despite their covering, and travels about halfway up the legs.
And then sits there and lasts for several hours even after I am indoors again.

Godverdomme.

Naturally I blame generation X for this. In my day, sunny boy, it never got so thickly frigid. Why, the streets seemed heated from beneath! We would skip gaily as clouds of steam from the recent rains wreathed us romantically in warm foggy swirls! It was delightful.

Now take out your ear-buds and turn off your damned cellphone.
Listen attentively while I whine and gibber.
Show some respect!



A nice hot bowl of congee (生滾猪肝粥 'sang gwan chü gon juk', fresh poached pork liver rice porridge), a fried bread stick (油條 'yau tiu', "oil strip") for dipping, and a hot cup of Hong Kong milk tea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai cha').



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