港大二三事：我的同班同學。

比較文學，電影早課。 

S 坐在教室的第五排。 我把布袋子放在他旁邊， 隔一個位子坐了下來。 還有五分鐘才開始講課， Pr. Gina Machetti 已經一早來到， 在前面張羅著。

「早安。」 S 說。

「早安。」 我微笑。

S 是美國的交流生， 唸電影系二年級；華人， 卻徹底的不懂中文。

「唏， 你看了這課的電影沒有?」 他放下手中的星巴克熱飲。 鮮明的咖啡味道。

「你說安妮荷爾?」

「我忘了是甚麼...... 應該是吧。」

「看了。其實我老早看過了， 不過上星期也再看了一遍。」

「真努力!」

「才不是呢， 只不過我一直喜歡活地阿倫而已。 怎麼你會沒看過安妮荷爾呢， 我以為凡美國人都會看過呀。 這是活地阿倫的成名之作不是嗎?」

S 搖搖頭：「他在美國沒有你想像中那麼受歡迎。」

我想了一想：「唔， 王家衛的電影也只在外國才賣座。」

同學們陸續到達， 教室漸漸熱鬧起來。

「我本打算今天上課前到圖書館看的， 不過實在起不了床呀， 哈哈!」

「你昨晚一定到蘭桂芳去了吧。」我想起昨天是星期四，ladies' night。

「才不是呢， 昨晚跟其他交流生去飲早茶了。 一班人胡胡混混待到凌晨三時便出發到西環。 冷死了， 哈哈! 不過真的吃了好多東西， 很棒!」 他眉飛色舞的說著， 一副意猶未盡的樣子。

我下意識想起流沙奶黃包和炸奶， 一骨碌嚥下口水。  

S 呷一口咖啡繼續說：「我們一行九人吃吃東西聊聊天， 回到宿舍已經差不多六時了。 我肚子漲得睡不著， 才剛睡著鬧鐘便響了。 沒蹺課已經很好了， 哈哈! 所以我現在非常的疲憊， 幸好世上有咖啡這東西。」

通常交流生都以遊戲人間為己任， 課不來上， 功課論文統統視若無睹。 S 不同， 他的學習態度認真， 課堂出席率比本地生還高， 所以比較文學系的教授們導師們以至同學們都對他另眼相看。

「空著肚子喝咖啡對腸胃不好呵。」 我打開布袋掏出筆記本。

「噢， 你不說我都幾乎忘掉了。」 他轉身從背包裡掏出一個白色膠袋子。

「你知道嗎， 菠蘿包是全宇宙最偉大的發明。」 他掀開膠袋， 一口咬掉包子的四分之一。 一塊黃色自包的表面剝落掉到他的筆記本上， 他小心翼翼捎起來， 放入口裡。

「我小時候每天吃菠蘿包。」 我對他說 ：「百吃不厭。」

「你真幸福。 一想到回美國要與菠蘿包訣別我便惆悵。」 他皺著眉頭又咬了一口。

似是故人來

二零一六年三月。春天。微涼的清早。

　　春風過處，盡是一片新生天地。嫩草從春泥中探出頭來，樹梢也忙著抽新芽。一年之計在於春，冬眠期盡了，蝴蝶從沈睡中甦醒過來，繼續遊戲人間。蝶兒翩翩的，飛過一座新墳；墳前，一雙雙幽幽的眼睛正凝望。

　　那是一座白色的墓碑，碑上雕著精緻的花和葉，仔細的刻著一個似曾相識的名字 。

　　我佇立自己的墳前，幽幽的望著眼前一雙眼睛。此刻，我真正踏雪無痕，連風也吹不起我的髮，只有一只莫名其妙的蝶，不住縈繞身畔。也許大自然的力量，人類才只知道不夠百分之一。真可惜，我沒能化蝶。也不知沈睡了多久，醒來的時候，指顧間，原來已匆匆過了一生，我方如夢初醒。

　　沒能看到彼此頭上長出第一根白髮，我便先走一步了。都恨手上無名指的指環，就是相濡以沬，到底敵不過生老病死。高處不勝寒。不過這十年的時間，也可算是天長地久。可是這一生，畢竟亦太短。我不知道我將會到哪裡去。如果有天國的話，我會在天國的門前等你，再同偕白首；如果要輪迴再生的話，我會在奈何橋上等你，來生再續未了緣。生前據說鬼魂有入夢的力量，如果這是真的，我學會了，再來找你。可惜，這些「如果」都太虛無，太縹緲了。

猶記得你常常把一句「我真不明白你」掛在口邊，不明白我的固執，不明白我的陰晴不定。然後你悄悄翻看我看過的書，試圖在茫無之中找一點點頭緒。我不知道你找到了沒有，也許年月會讓你發現，我這個女子，原來比誰都簡單。要是沒有天國也沒有來生，那麼這些僅餘的記憶，便會成為我餘生僅餘的一點憑藉，一點安慰。

此際仔細地端詳你，你好像霎時蒼老了。

　　眼底還站著木訥的母親，親友，舊情人，和我的小女兒。那不是一幅尋常的圖畫，因為他們都穿著藍與白的衣裳，而不是我討厭的黑。簡單的葬禮一切都依我的意願喜好。走也要走得漂亮。這已經是我在塵世作的最後一次決定。

　　小女兒靜靜的拉著你的手，一雙天真靈巧的瞳孔看不透世情。死亡，距離她還有一段很長的時間。有福的話，也許可以活過一世紀。也好，至少她會延續我未完的生命，圓我未圓的夢。我還沒有死，因為在她內，一半是你，另一半是我。

　　你們把手中白色的梔子花輕輕拋進坑裡，使得墳上的清芬隔住了兩個世界。忽爾春雨襲人，細風斜雨，滲著氤氳的花香，多浪漫的一個葬禮。春泥快要將我掩蓋，塵歸塵，土歸土，人本是一抹散落的輕塵，從哪裡來，便從哪裡去。

　　時候不早了，又是告別的時候───第二次告別。我轉身，遠處站著等的一個人，對我輕輕的微笑，招招手。我慢慢向他走去，慢慢的……

寫於 2005 年

等待

ＴK 說＜六個夢＞是瓊瑤的壓卷之作，果真不錯。

續寫了瓊瑤＜六個夢＞的第一章＜追尋＞。

以第一身作婉君。

寫的是婉君的等待，女人的等待。

又一舊年代的悲劇。

＜等待＞

民國二十三年，北平。

天蒼蒼，雨茫茫。春去秋來，歲月如流，老年人死了，年輕的老了。

凋零的周宅，如今只剩下我獨自守候。日復日月復月年復年。

曾幾何時，我被三個男人愛著，被三兄弟等著。

我的等待自十年前開始。十年，匆匆，太匆匆。十年，足夠讓女人花殘粉褪，也足夠讓寒蟬輪迴千百遍。天地億萬年如一日，比不上人間，數十年已是滄海桑田。多少浮華事，應在眼前。

自古以來，女人都有等待的能耐：昭君等元帝，小小等阮郁，鶯鶯等張生……奈何都是徒盼，白等了一場，白恨了一場。

但我還在等。等誰？我也不知道。

除了等，我還可以做什麼？天下之大，除了周宅，已無一容身之所。

又一個秋。

紅葉舞秋風，飄過一瓣紅葉，猶似當年我甫入周門，遍地絳紅鞭炮屑。那天萬人空巷，一時無兩，好不熱鬧。那年我才八歲，還在花轎裡抽泣想娘。往事如煙，如夢，空餘一葉恨，踏碎無痕。

歲月有多長，等待有多久，生生不息，世世不亡。

昨日我才二八年華，好夢正濃，今日已經二十有六。彈指紅顏，在這個年頭，命好的已有子女滿堂呱呱喊娘，並且相夫君，孝爺娘。看我孑然一身，媳婦不是媳婦，寡婦也不是寡婦，簡直荒唐，簡直可笑，簡直作孽。

女人都是命短，紅顏總是薄命，因女人一生要承受太多的悲哀，太多的眼淚──尤其是，太美的女人，特別招風雨。美得過份的女人，逃不了禍水的宿命──周老爺的說話，迄今仍字字如雷貫耳，不時在我耳邊縈繞。

對，我不怪誰，不怪他們離我而去。一切塵埃因我而惹，一切因由因我而生。只恨當年求死不遂，往後再也沒有提白綾的勇氣。

也許，他們三兄弟，我三個都愛；也許，我三個都不愛。

是因為要給久纏病榻的大哥伯健沖喜，我才到周家來。他比我年長十年，默默等了我八年，好不容易等到我二八年華，正是花月佳期，卻等不到八月十五圓房之夜。奈何一句竹馬繞青梅，把我的畢生幸福都繞走了。伯健痴情若此，莫不是我不守本份，把我倆的幸福給活生生掐死了？

我要嫁的是伯健，過門那天他卻正臥病在床，故代他與我拜堂的卻是二哥仲康。陰差陽錯。驀然回首，才發現命運曾給我們留下這樣的一筆伏線，只是當時我們都沒察覺。如果那次拜堂算數──那麼，仲康與我便一早是夫妻了。

我懷念三哥叔豪。他們之中就他的年歲，脾氣與我最相近。他曾為我捉墨蝶，編竹籠……他是最後留下的一個，也是，最後離開的一個。當他決定遠走天涯的一天開始，我便知道，他不會回來。

天意弄人，才教我周旋在他們三兄弟之間；本是同根生，卻為了一隻墨蝶，弄得枝分葉離。

他們走了。

他們帶著我的夢，走了。

磨人的年月，淘盡幾多青春幾多美夢。

青春過後，美夢不再來。

美夢過後，青春不再來。

多情應笑我。

寫於 2005 年

holiday movie.

美麗大廈

今天，一個人看了電影，吃了飯，漫無目的地在街上遊蕩，最後到田園書屋買了西西的美麗大廈。

這書想看好久，多次拿上手來最後都放下了，覺得還沒有適當的情緒，還沒到適當的時候。直到今天，我忽然覺得，是時候了。

對於書的名字，一直存著不切實際的幻想。是不是有一幢矮小的房子叫作美麗大廈，住著一美麗的女子，然後有一天她遇見了誰，開始了一個美麗的故事，就在美麗大廈裡邊。

寂寞旳時候，閑著的時候，胡思亂想的時候，有微風，也有細雨的時候，正是讀西西的時候。

是天氣的關係嗎？今天情緒低落。甚麼提不起勁，都不想管，不想做。

she charms the birds out of the trees

I just find it very, very beautiful.

See more at Etsy.

Calming Infusion

$28 for 20 teabags, Marks & Spencer

Recent favourite:
Calming Infusion by Marks & Spencer (camomile & lavender).

見與不見

 The Lovers, Magritte

作者：扎西拉姆·多多

你见，或者不见我， 　　　　
我就在那里，
不悲不喜；

你念，或者不念我， 　　
情就在那里， 　　　
不来不去； 　　

你爱，或者不爱我， 　　
爱就在那里， 　　
不增不减； 　　

你跟，或者不跟我， 　　
我的手就在你手里， 　　
不舍不弃； 　　

来我的怀里， 　　
或者， 　　
让我住进你的心里 　　
 默然 相爱， 　　
寂静 欢喜 

music for sunday morning.

The Things We Do For Love, Joanna Wang.

I'm sitting here in the boring room
It's just another rainy Sunday afternoon
I'm wasting my time
I got nothing to do
I'm hanging around
I'm waiting for you
But nothing ever happens and I wonder

If I were you would you be me?

Seated Woman, Seurat.

If I were a watch would you hold my hands?
If I were a glass would you kiss me on my lips?

If I were a sonnet would you read me fourteen times?
If I were a pillow would you dream on me every night?

If I were a stone would you pick me up and put me in your pocket?
If I were an ordinary day would you write about me and remember me?

If I were a window would you look outside through me?
If I were a pencil would you be the words I write?

If I were blue would you be the sea?
If I were you would you be me?

Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life.

Oscar Wilde

Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life.

 - Oscar Wilde

When the lost is found.

Almond Blossom, Van Gogh.

It's been so many years that I almost forgot who he is.

I was 17. Z was one year or two younger than me. We met in the International Model United Nations, a summer event in which we happened to be delegates in the same committee. He came from Shanghai but he spoke English beautifully. He’s bright, and he's the kind of person that shines not through his looks but his minds. If we were in the 18^th century, he’s exactly the kind of gentleman who would deserve the admiration of the hall.

I had no idea how we became acquainted but we’d already been close from the beginning of the story, like we had noticed each other at the same instant, then fondness flourished between us. Sometimes affection just comes along, and when it goes mutual, it goes natural.  

In the meantime I was friends with two other girls, A and O, in the same committee. They're two amiable girls from Marymount with pleasing personalities. Naturally the several of us became friends who never went anywhere without looking for each other in the crowd, and alliances that supported and defended one another in the heated debates that would not go if you're fighting alone.

Everything must come to an end, but the end was too soon to be there. As we hugged goodbye, I wiped off the tears in my eyes and I wondered if our paths would ever cross again. It must have been the work of our over-reactive-teenage hormones that intensify every passion, and lose control of every sorrow. It had only been a few days' time but parting turned out to be the hardest thing for our young hearts to bear.

But as Life unfolds itself in time, you'll see it has bigger plans laid out for us.

In a few months, Z visited us once for his TOFEL exams in Hong Kong. We had lunch at Central, and that's the only time we'd got together in so many years. Then, A and Z dated each other, and their long-distance relationship went well for some time until change took its course. With distinctions in every subject, A was admitted to Fudan University but then came back because she didn't like it there. Then the two Marymount girls and I reunited in the same college; although sometimes we'd run into each other, we were never quite the same friends again. Z got into Yale the following year, and our lives were quite settled in our own ways without having anything to do with one another, or any chance of ever meeting again.

It's been so many years that I almost forgot who he is, until a few days ago when I saw his name again it took me quite a while to finally remember him. He told me he's in Hong Kong, working here after graduation. I was overjoyed. I really was. It feels like in Never Let Me Go, when Kathy and Tommy went to Norfolk, they found the music tape that was once lost for so many years.

A Sunday of one's own.

Magritte.

Sunday.

I wake up when my bio-clock tells me to, and it's still early around 8am. Then I'll get changed and go to the cinema. I have no need to worry about getting a ticket because it's easy for someone who's alone. There are always empty seats left between the occupied, ones that are left to waste until someone like me takes it.

It's not weird to go to the cinema alone - if you feel awkward it's because you're being too self-conscious. No one pays any attention and no one cares whether you're going with anyone at all. And it's pathetic if someone finds it embarrassing to be on her own, even in darkness. If you can't get along with yourself, you can hardly be a good companion for anyone else.

That's how I usually spend my Sunday morning. As for the afternoon, I'll write about it next week. I'm  literally exhausted now. Monday is too soon to be here.

Between men and women.

Magritte.

Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.

- Oscar Wilde

"Fashion fades, only style remains the same."

Fashion fades, only style remains the same.
Coco Chanel

'the girl who was very good at Geography'

Above the Town, Chagall.

 I've always been very fond of Geography.

Last month, I paid a visit to Ms Au, my former Geography teacher, told her I'm now also a teacher, and she thought that I must be teaching Geography. She's always remembered me as 'the girl who was very good at Geography'.

Geography is a very romantic subject.

We studied the clouds in different seasons, learnt about the winds that come but never stay (think about the people we've met), and the rains - they're not simply rains, they have their own names that tell their own stories (think about ourselves). It's poetry in a natural form.  You have to be  sensitive to the delicate changes of the weather (you can feel it in your skin), and be imaginative enough to visualize what exists but can't be seen (love). It's full of metaphors.

Out of the many modules, my favourites were those about rocks, mountains and plate tectonics. I thought the ideas were positively philosophic and thought-provoking. Nothing is unchanging, not even the seas, the mountains, the rocks that were once immovably stern. Those apart might finally come together, and those who have been inseparable might be split for the rest of time. And time, how much time could do to everything.

When I was little I had an atlas at home and I enjoyed reading it over and over again. I'd study the maps, check out the strange names in the exotic elsewhere, and look at the places I'd never heard of (we learn about places before we've actually been there; we believe in love before we've actually proved it). It was not until secondary school that I started to have formal Geography classes, and I could still recall how I had anticipated each lesson, most of the time well-prepared, having studied the materials beforehand. I was absorbed in every lesson, following very close to what the teacher was saying, trying to make sense of every new thing.

My first Geography teacher was Ms Yip, an elegant young lady with a fair face and a pleasing voice. She always blinked her eyes while she's thinking and speaking at the same time. There was once when, after traveling in Europe, she showed us photos she took in the Swan Lake in Germany and told us stories about Iceland. It reminded me of my childhood amusement, and I told myself that one day I'm gonna see these places not in the map, but real and alive. I was lucky enough to be in her class for two years in my junior, which gave me a solid foundation and lasting interest of the subject.

I thought there wouldn't be another Geography teacher compatible with Ms Yip, and I was right until I met Ms Chan, who took care of my first public examination. Her teaching was clear and organized; her handwriting and illustrations were so lovely that I tried very hard to imitate. She's adorable, and I enjoyed looking at her clothes because she always had fine, delicate details most gracefully put together. There's always a silk scarf carefully tied around her neck, and it made her look like a dolly coming into life. In fact, she looks just like Ms Chan in the McMug stories, that's why everybody loved calling her "Miss Chan Chan". She's always coughing, and she blamed it on Causeway Bay where she's lived in since birth. I felt sad about this and I wished there's something I could ease her suffering.

I'm very grateful to my teachers not only for the distinctions they gave me in public examinations, but also for the passion, the free spirit they've passed on to me. Now that I'm all grown and independent, I can travel and see the world as I've wished. From time to time I look for the landscapes and scenes I once saw in my Geography textbooks, and wherever I go, I go thinking about the Geography lessons that showed me the beauty of our planet Earth, and my teachers from whom I've learnt to appreciate nature and culture as a whole.

two drifters.

Two Drifters, Ivy Poon. Today.

stranger on my lips

Birthday, Chagall. 1915.

 Last night a stranger kept teasing me and making me feel bad about myself. I was sulking when suddenly the lights were off and in the invisible darkness he kissed me on my lips. Then the dream came to a halt. There's nothing else I could recall.

Love, sick.

The Kiss, Gustav Klimt.

My head is stony, face scarlet, throat burning, eyes aching, muscles agitating, heart racing. My mind is out of function. I can't think and I can't work. I need to drink a lot of water, but don't feel like eating anything. These are either signs of being ill, or symptoms of being madly in love. 

Sadly I belong to the former. In such case I shall recover sooner or later, given adequate rest, water, vitamin C and fresh air; then hopefully my immune system will regain its power without the help of  any medication. 

But love, as far as I know, can't be cured with anything. And no one can be immune to love. It's in the winds that you breathe, in the tea that you drink, in the words that you read. You might already feel it in the veins that go to your heart, or find it in the nerves that make butterflies dance in your stomach. 

Painful as it is, a lot of us would rather die than being cured of the disease. Dying of love is better than living loveless. It's not that we have a choice. It's love that chooses us.

October in Poetry.

Thanks Tammy for including a poem I like in the collection of "October in Poetry".

what a poor man would give for love.

Saint Jean Cap Ferrat, Chagall.

He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven 
W.B. Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Staunton Street.

We walked down the stairs and said goodbye to one another at the junction of the road.

L and I got in a cab, and from the windows we watched the midnight people out there on the street. We talked about our shared acquaintances, the hkimun people, how some have changed, some never. He sent me off at Marsh Road in Wan Chai. It was late and I was a bit scared to be alone, but soon a cab came and took me home. Then I thought about the night, about the stories they told.

I did not talk much, and did only if I wanted to. For most of my time I just listened to how they're getting on with their lives, how some of them have got together while others drifted apart. It's been ages since we last met, but it's comforting to find everything familiar and predictable. They're virtually how I've remembered them - their countenances, paces of speaking, ways of bursting into laughter. The boys were in shirts, as if we're back in those days again, reckless in suits that didn't fit very well with our age. We were very young then, and now we've come together again with experience, though not always pleasant ones.

Things do change, and we're from time to time reminded that what takes years to establish takes much less to degenerate. It sounds unreal when you read it in books but when it happens to the ones you know, it feels as close as personal. But I don't mean change is necessarily negative. Sometimes things just have to turn bad so that they could become good again, because a change is a chance.

L called me just to make sure I was safe and sound. He's like a brother to me and it's nice having him back at home again.

time is short if we don't make it long.

Persistence of Memory, Dali.

Time Stands
William Kean Seymour

It is a lovely thing to make time stand,
Delivering a glad moment to my hand
When moments hustle loosely by, uncaught
By the deep treasuring spirit in a thought.

To make time stand, in crystal memory clear,
Whilst a loved music flows upon the ear,
Or sudden rainbows bend, or on a hill
A sunset group of pines rears hushed and still:

This I have known, and these have come again
With echoing happiness in heart and brain;
Time standing still, surrendering to me
Beauty that otherwise would cease to be.

a happy heart makes a stone a flower.

The Butterfly, Johann Georg Meyer Von Bremen

The Example  
W.H. Davies

Here's an example from
          A Butterfly;
That on a rough, hard rock
          Happy can lie;
Friendless and all alone
On this unsweetened stone. 

Now let my bed be hard
          No care take I;
I'll make my joy like this
         Small Butterfly;
Whose happy heart has power
To make a stone a flower.

he told me he'd felt exactly the same

I was reading Never Let Me Go, pausing now and then to think, when suddenly my mind went blank and then I fell asleep. When I woke up, I finished the last bits of the book. There's always this feeling of loss when a story has come to an end, especially when it's a story of the protagonists you're fond of and identify with. 

I closed the book, then I opened it again, to the pages which I had remarked with a fold-up corner. Even it's just fragments, a second read casts a new light to everything familiar. Here's one particular part I'm fond of and like to share. If it sounds trivial to you, it's because you've no idea what it takes to lead things up for Kath and Tommy. 

Nothing can be more beautiful (but sad) in reminiscence.

Chapter 15, Never Let Me Go

"When I think of that moment now, standing with Tommy in the little side-street about to begin our search, I feel a warmth welling up through me. Everything suddenly felt perfect: an hour set aside, stretching ahead of us, and there wasn't a better way to spend it. I had to really hold myself back from giggling stupidly, or jumping up and down on the pavement like a little kid. Not long ago, when I was caring for Tommy, and I brought up our Norfolk trip, he told me he'd felt exactly the same. That moment when we decide to go searching for my lost tape, it was like suddenly every cloud had blown away, and we had nothing but fun and laughter before us."

a comfort on an idle Sunday afternoon.

The Things We Do For Love, Joanna Wang. 2011.

Listen to it

Is it today? Or yesterday?

Christina's World, Andrew Wyeth

The Day That Summer Died
Vernon Scannell

From all around the mourners came
  The day that Summer died,
From hill and valley, field and wood
  And lane and mountainside.

They did not come in funeral black
  But every mourner chose
Gorgeous colours or soft shades
  Of russet, yellow, rose.

Horse chestnut, oak and sycamore
  Wore robes of gold and red;
The rowan sported scarlet beads;
  No bitter tears were shed.

Although at dusk the mourners heard,
  As a small wind softly sighed,
  A touch of sadness in the air
  The day that Summer died.

我和太太就是這樣開始交往的。

今天看到一篇網誌，分享一下。 

    二十六年前的今天，是我和太太結婚的日子。...

　當年我在新亞文商書院〔夜校大專部〕教邏輯學，屬一學年課程，
我太太就是其中一位學生。從某一個角度看，我太太是很美的，而
我站在講台上，剛好就是那個角度。我當時只教一科，上課時準時到
達課室，下課後就離開了，並沒有什麼時間和學生交談。直到上學期
考試完結，我想了一個辦法，就是在我太太的試卷上加多一分，即九
十一分，並於派發試卷時對大家說：「請小心檢查分數，若我給多或
給少了分數，下課後留下修改。」派發試卷前，我重複檢查了多次，
確保其他同學沒有給多或給少了分數。我和太太就是這樣開始交往的。

    轉眼間，二十六年了。以我對人生的體會，我覺得我和太太這樣
相處了二十六年，我們於多生多世前一定曾結下善緣。

原文
 

Rainy Friday.

Yesterday I brought my girls to HKU for their Chinese History assignment. After briefly showing them around the campus, we ended up in the art museum where the 1911 Revolution photography exhibition was being held. We were all amazed by how much could happen in a century. And God knows what they would think of us after another century has gone by. They'd probably blame us for destroying their world with pollutions that could never be mended. Anyway, we had a little cozy time chatting with our voice low, sharing thoughts about important and unimportant things, before we parted one another.

The bus station on Bonham Road was overcrowded with flocks and flocks of people. I was heading to Hollywood Road but it's impossible for me to get on any minibuses that would take me there. So I jumped on 40, and got off at Robinson Road. I was in a mood of walking, not to mention the Mid-Levels is my favourite place for a stroll.

I took the stairs which went all the way down to Caine Road. At the end of the stairs there was a Roman Catholic cathedral hidden away in a cluster of buildings. I was astounded to see such a place with such an architecture - it's a Gothic one with flying buttresses and pointed stone arches. I wondered what's it like inside.

Then I crossed the road to Arbuthnot Road, made a turn into Hollywood Road and finally to Flow Bookstore. I was looking for Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains Of The Day, but it's not available, so eventually I picked up Enduring Love, a novel by Ian McEvan. Everytime I visited the bookstore the owner was there, busying himself at the register desk. He's a middle-aged, well-mannered man who's quiet and helpful. And I like him a lot.

When I got out of the bookstore it's raining hard. And I loved it.