Two fried eggs between two pieces of gouda between two layers of kimchi between two slices of toast. That was lunch, a far cry from frozen ravioli. Sometimes it is okay to state the obvious: things have changed. For the next month, I am living in Sai Ying Pun –which makes me feel like an impostor– taking care of a friend’s flat while they are away to film the Olympics in Tokyo. “Taking care of a flat” is quite the concept. It makes me think of old people, children, or dogs. As if a flat not lived in would grow weak and wither away. Not that I am complaining.
But, in some ways, it is true, with only the slightest neglect, Hong Kong flats are liable to spawn mould or even ghosts. My friend is one of those warm and magnanimous types who loves a good ruckus and generally takes up a lot of space. So their absence is jarring and at times does feel as if they were replaced by a ghost, one who communicates with me not by shifting household objects, but by sending gravelly voice notes on WhatsApp.
Meanwhile, I am a highly educated country bumpkin from the Outlying Islands masquerading as a newly widowed aristocrat with a terrace and partial sea view. This could be the start of a great novel. But it’s too late. I’ve already been found out. The wine shop people already know I only buy the cheapest rosé (Flying Solo, the irony) and have no shame in calling out my order as soon as I open the sliding glass door.