Quiet Tuesday

A quiet Tuesday night in Hong Kong; after an uneventful and marginally disappointing day at the office, which threatened but never delivered anything productive, I went home to carry some cat paraphernalia down stairs.

To do that required walking up all those stairs to the apartment, but I sneakily avoided that by getting home late. My wife, unblessed by the gift of patience that passes all human understanding, had already commenced lugging the enormous bag of feline apparatus earthward. Thus instead of walking up 12 flight, I only had to scamper up a couple - no stairs for me this evening.

Except that because we were taking all the stuff for our erstwhile pet round to her proper owner, who lives near the top of an old walk-up, fitted with vertiginous stairs, so I got my odious ascent after all. Life is so hard sometimes.

At least at the top of the stairs there was dinner; salad and chickpea stew and chocolates and ... and several bottles of red wine, which is a bad idea, quiet Tuesday night or no quiet Tuesday night. A few glasses in and I was sozzled, which made my wife laugh, and encouraged her to bring me more wine, although heaven knows why that was. I have a sneaking suspicion that she enjoys seeing me hungover, because there's no other rational reason for this behaviour.

Thus after all the wine was drunk, we went downhill, both physically and mentally, and fetched up in a bar on Peel Street where a friend was playing guitar and they were serving mulled wine. I put off the inevitable by loitering outside for as long as I could, but eventually I was forced inside by the arctic winds of December Hong Kong, and forced to put myself outside of some more wine, which means I write this with my fingernails barely clutching Tuesday, Wednesday coming fast and hard over the horizon to greet me. It's not like I even drink.