Still suffering Ebeneezer after-effects

More than 24 hours have passed and that rogue felafel is still wreaking havoc; I've spent most of the day doubled up, clutching my stomach and whimpering. I suppose some of this could be the strains provided by yesterday's biking, but that has never tied my guts in knots before.

As a result, I didn't much enjoy the spicy crab restaurant in Wan Chai last night. Depending on who you listen to, there's either lots of spicy crab restaurants in that area, or one restaurant that has metastasised and spread throughout the entire block, engufling all the other buildings on that stretch of Lockhart Road. You'd almost worry that with so many people eating these delicious crustaceans, they'd run out. But I don't think there will ever be a shortage of crabs in Wan Chai.

Speaking of irritating and embarassing parasites, it was the final of the Sevens yesterday, which meant the streets were awash with the detritus of humanity, bumbling drunk from the stadium back to their hotels or to further hijinks involving dressing up as a piece of fruit. I suppose there's nothing wrong with fancy dress. Just that it should be confined to fancy dress parties.

The spicy crab restaurant(s) are a cunning practical joke. At least, that's my way of making sense of it. As you might expect, they sell plates of crab, buried under heaps of spiced, fried garlic. Under so much spiced, fried garlic that everyone who ate even the merest morsel of crab turned red and broke out in a sweat. I would have given my schadenfreude full rein, but as I was almost catatonic from the ride and the felafel, I was incapable even of taking pleasure in somebody else's misery.

Our table swelled through the night, more and more victims of the spicy crab taking their place at the table. I ate tofu and otherwise kept my mouth shut, while the hoarse-voiced waiter cackled at my fiancee and the world seemed ready to end. Truly, sleep deprivation, evil felafels and a day of hard riding aren't a good preparation for a night of crab.

I suppose if I could eat them, I might have felt crabulent. As it was, I went home, collapsed into my bed, then shuffled through today at the office, failing to cloak myself in glory. However, I was a man on a mission and this evening I dragged myself back to Mong Kok, with better directions this time, and instead of the Saturday afternoon hell of Chamonix, five minutes in the HK Mountaineering Centre and I had a brand new pair of Five Tens, in a size that fit me, and with a helpful shop assistant no less, rather than a selection of bored looking men desperately trying to avoid interactions with customers.

And if that wasn't enough, at the till they gave me an inexplicable discount of $150, which means my new shoes cost exactly half what they would do in the UK. It makes up for all that stinky tofu stink I've been inhaling.