Dim sum

This lunchtime we went for dim sum in Windsor Plaza, a shopping centre on the edge of Causeway Bay. I'm not keen on Chinese food, because at dim sum all there seems to eat is things made from bits of pig, and broccoli.

The dim sum joint is on the 14th floor, and in an example of Freudian slippage, I spent half an hour in Windsor Plaza, lost. I did two circumnavigations of the second floor, more and more confused that I couldn't find a lift to the 14th floor, and then took 14 escalators up to the 15th floor. You can't get from the 15th floor to the 14th floor. You can find a way through a complicated set of corridors and stairwells that fetch you up at the back door of the dim sum joint, which is padlocked shut, and after a couple of minutes of rattling the handles, I went back down all the escalators and was on the verge of giving up and going home.

Then I finally happened on a lift that went to the 14th floor, via the 6th, which was filled with babbling octogenarians, and then spent twenty minutes tooling around the restaurant, trying to find my wife.
This was fraught with difficulty, which is strange, because my wife is a flame-haired redhead, and as such should stand out like a fiery beacon in a sea of dark brown hair. Yet somehow she was invisible, or I was distracted by the bowls of brocolli, or steamed buns, or carts of tea.

Eventually I got to sit down at the table, and in a display of the cultural sensitivity which I'm famous for, I got out a chocolate cake and had that to eat while everyone else had their unidentifiable porcine products. So I suppose that turned out alright after all.

And so, finally, we get to the end of this era. Somehow it's appropriate that I should finish up in Hong Kong, stuffing chocolate in my cake while all around me pak choi and dumplings materialised.