Sai Ying Pun, 10:46AM - Overcast.

Entry 73

City living. I am back in the imposter apartment in Sai Ying Pun again, the rightful owner being rightfully off to film the wrongful Winter Olympics in Beijing. I spend the night without anything from my green apartment in Lamma. Lockdown restrictions have only just intensified, no more than two households allowed in a private premises at once. Walls are thin, neighbors are idle, doormen are watchful, and fines are eye-watering. Speaking of eye-watering, in a diner on Bonham Road, as I breakfast with Lucy Kellaway in memoir form, a Cantopop song begins to play from the kitchen. Mournful, steady drums. The staff burst into song as do several of my fellow diners. When people sing like this in public I always get the impression that something is weighing on their minds and they don’t know how to talk about it, better to sing it. I myself was singing in the shower this morning. Thin walls be damned. The piano keys of the song hit the shower tiles just right, I feel them in my teeth.