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If you're not a banker, there's a lack of things to do in the lift atrium. There's a large sculpture of what appears to be orange peel, fashioned from scrap iron, and there are some escalators to ascend and descend, but there's very little else to distract you while you stand there. And stand there. And stand there.
After the umpteenth circuit of the escalators, my girlfriend was bored and wanted something to eat, so we went to Union for dinner. My sense of direction is incredible. Incredibly wrong, that is. Since the shopping centre is basically circular, it wouldn't matter if we turned left or right, so I managed to pull off an innovative new wrong direction by going up another escalator and then down one, just to get back to the floor I'd started on.
That was probably the fault of all those escalators we'd been on earlier. They're addictive. This time next year all the Hong Kong kids will have packed in the ketamine and will be standing on moving staircases to get their kicks.
I'm still confused, after all these years, about why a horse tranquiliser would find application as a recreational drug. Equine depressants don't strike me as the sure route to becoming the life and soul of a party. But I'm worried that I'm just too much of a square, not down with all those jive-talkin' hep cats.
But I can dig it, man. And to show you, I'm going to do a line of crushed up worming tablets and two grams of flea powder tomorrow night. That'll get the party started and no mistake.
Forgot to tell my visitor this. Hardly the act of a proper host, to fail to offer a handful of mothballs and some malarial prophylaxis to your guest. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was offended. That's probably why he flew back to England tonight. Nothing to do with having a wife, two kids and some unfeasible cats to visit.
Damn, damn, damn. When will I ever understand etiquette?
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