Possibly another long(ish) post. If busy, wait.
If not, enjoy.
If irritated, blow away.
I get a serious case of the trepidations every time I write one of these (who will read it? Why?)
No one has complained yet, except for Steven sending me the etymology for brevity, but he doesn't count.
Volume-cadence Rick is only irate that I haven't mentioned him, viz. his manly chest hair, his mastery of the guitar, and his consummate skill at indigenous peoples law.
Nonetheless, I am still unsure if people actually mind receiving notes about this or if I drive people frantic with exasperation, but I may become inured to the trepidation soon as a couple of you have indicated that these should "keep on coming", so beware, you may get what you wish for...
Dear Gentle Reader (again),
Apart from the trepidation of mailing or posting this stuff, the actual writing business is quite fun when there is no client or judge to worry about, besides of course for the judgement rendered by you, dear Reader.
So, where does this e-pistle (e-epistle just doesn't look right) find our favourite heroine and hero, Regina and Pommes, and their trusty scribe Chris?
Well, on Kowloon, still. But what a battle they had to stay there...
A typhoon recently ravaged their outcropping of land, leaving them adrift in a sea of raindrops the size of persimmons (see picture above for size and shape)... rainpersimmons... which make a heck of a racket against windows.
On one side of the apartment the rainpersimmons came straight down, and then, with unerring aim and a queasy animosity last seen in kamikaze fighter pilots in The Great War, Part Two (The Sequel), they (the rainpersimmons) picked themselves off their trajectory for the earth, about faced, rotated 90 degrees and flew straight at your faithful scribe.
Only the fine double glazed windows kept your scribe safe from potential drowning, nine storeys above the sodden earth.
This is also how your scribe knows that said rainpersimmons (droplets really is too soft and mild a word) made such a racket as they dashed themselves against the windows.
But, there was a unique Hong Kong character to these rainpersimmons...
Presumably these rainpersimmons had started out somewhere in the celestial heavens, wherever it is that rainpersimmons are born and fitted with their angry, scribe-hunting consciousness (your scribe thinks the following facts deny charges of egocentricity, even if this e-pistle does not...).
The rainpersimmons were aimed at your scribe, let fly, appeared to collide with the earth, then snaked their way around the building in a rapid flanking manoeuvre, only to hurl themselves up and away from the earth to attempt to attack your scribe from the rear.
I kid you not, gentle Reader, these rainpersimmons, on the opposite side of the building, came hurtling UP from the earth and then they picked themselves off their trajectory FROM the earth, about faced, rotated 90 degrees and flew straight at your faithful scribe.
If I'm lying, I'm dying and I'm still typing now. It must be true.
That is what typhoons are like in Hong Kong.
Anyway, your scribe survived the Typhoon (Great Wind in Chinese) and the rainpersimmons.
Your heroine survived also, as did your hero, Pommes. Pommes slept through the typhoon dreaming dreams of baked persimmons stuffed with Cantonese BBQ pork.
Next came organising the house as a natural follow-on from the unpacking of the great cardboard obelisk garden referred to in the Fine Plan/Fire Plan incident.
Some of you have expressed sympathy with our plight in the unpacking department. We appreciate it.
Don't send sympathy, however, send heavy lifting capacity helicopters and a team of sherpas.
Some of you asked when I will send pictures of the interior of the apartment; that will be a long time away, baby.
Now, when organizing a vast multitude of things in a not so vast space certain tricks are required. Having no sonic screwdriver a la Dr. Who, your scribe made do with a fine method of three dimensional stacking.
Admittedly, the Tower of Hanoi principle would have to be used with any subsequent repacking, but your trusty scribe saw no grand problems. Your fine heroine, Queen Regina, did, and pointed them out repeatedly.
Let me provide you with a sample of the witty reparteé doled out by your fine Heroine.
"What? What are you thinking of putting your field hockey stick and ball on top of the kayak on top of the armoires in that delicate balancing act? It is going to drop on someone and then you'll be sorry..."
Admittedly, not really that witty from an English-language strictly definitional perspective, but your heroine is German... and German humour is considered by most scholars to be a bit of a lost cause, like Belgian resistance (as opposed to political infighting which is a finely honed craft in Belgium these days).
But then, two days later, Fate dropped an unpleasant package on your scribe's proverbial lap...
...a field hockey stick and ball weighing a cumulative 2 kilos(ish), dropping from a 2.6 metre height, and landing, en pointe, on your scribe's second toe of his left foot.
After the blue air cleared from the room, your trusty scribe, between brain jarring hops on his remaining footus intactus, thanked the heavens that he was not Christy Brown (the left foot now being damaged), because then how would he write out the fact that Queen Regina was right?
The positive side was that your scribe could forgo five nights on the dreaded stairmaster in the gym downstairs (broken toe!).
After a jarring break like that, another is allowed, but I see I am hitting my two page limit. So, more in the next missive.
Not so much Hong Kong news this time except for the mighty typhoon, the rainpersimmons with visions of being a whiff of grapeshot, and the joy of organising. Maybe more local colour in the next update.
Chris, Regina, and Pommes