Last night, I attended Alicia Key's fantastic second Hong Kong performance. I saw her in London and Hong Kong two - or even three? good grief - years ago, and simply had to go again following the release of the frankly brilliant As I Am last autumn. A friend sorted the tickets for four of us, and I was lucky enough to get a press ticket, so another friend joined us. I took the press ticket and went to sit alone, before we decided that I could get a friend to meet me with someone else's ticket and I could just sit with everyone else - it wasn't exactly packed.
I can't give enough praise for Ms Keys' musical talent - she has an incredibly voice and is an amazing musician, hopping around from the piano to keyboard and directing her band. She'd also clearly taken dance lessons since the last time, when she was rather awkward and white-person on her feet. This time, she'd toned down the moves, but what she did was simple and slick. She may have the voice of a diva, but she clearly doesn't act like one - there was one five-minute break in the nearly-two-hour show, but when she reappeared, she hadn’t changed. Clearly just had a bit of a sit-down and maybe a cuppa. Kudos, because she's a belter, and a very pretty girl who could have had multiple wardrobe changes, many more rest breaks and not really made such an effort (cf poor Whitney Houston who I saw in 2003; it was tragic the number of times she had to go backstage and she couldn't really sing more than two songs without a rest, so sad).
It was a fabulous performance.
Unfortunately, however, it was not a great concert. Hong Kong is fairly rubbish when it comes to hosting international stars. There is a good venue now, the AsiaWorld-Expo, but unfortunately it's "all the way" (in HK terms, 25 minutes on a high-speed train from the CBD is miles) near the airport. And they haven't really worked out a very good transport system - everyone crowds onto the train at the same time and there just ain't room.
But these are minor problems you can accept as part of big city life.
What's really, really irksome is the attitude of both audience members and venue staff. Venue staff will NOT, under any circumstances, let you possibly entertain the idea of rising above your station and moving to an empty seat in a row closer to the stage. Heaven forbid you consider standing in the aisles so that you can dance to the funktastic beats. And standing on chairs? Good lord, what do you think this is, a concert or something? They like to keep different ticket-price payers in very clearly delineated zones. We were in the back section, but had a friend further up who we went to join for a while. We were dancing in the seats, having a good time, when one of the poxy little guards came and asked to see tickets. It seems we were in someone's seats, but this was 9.20pm - the show was scheduled to start at 8. (Granted Alicia didn't appear until 8.40, but that's hardly the point.) If you can't get there on time, you don't deserve a good seat!
So we made our way back to our area, but stood at the front - by this time, they'd erected some metal barriers, just to remind us of our place in society. I haven't felt so much like a caged beast for a little while, so it was good to have the experience repeated.
The second incredibly frustrating aspect of the evening was that, despite their superior geographical position, nobody in the front two sections of the hall really seemed to be getting into the music. They all SAT there, even through incredibly dancy numbers like Wreckless Love, How Come You Don't Call Me and My Boo. If you're not going to a concert for the performer, the music and the vibe, why bother? Why not stay at home on the sofa. There was a lot of cheering, but come on. If you want live music you sit down to, go to the opera.
Last time I saw Alicia in Hong Kong, I stood up to dance to one of her many great tracks, and the girl behind me asked me to sit down. I offered her my seat, but explained that I was there to enjoy myself, and under no circumstances was I going to sit miserably through one of my favourite artists.
Being in the cattle pen worked out well - there were several other people willing to actually enjoy themselves, so a group of 50 (or maybe more, we were near the front) pushed up as far as we comfortably could to the barrier and sang and cheered and boogied the night away.
I'm hoping, at tomorrow's Travis concert, that people will be a bit more up for fun. At Backstreet Boys (yes, my musical taste is occasionally mocked) in February, we were a mass of cheering, screaming, boogying bodies. That was fun. And at John Legend (HOT) last year, the HK security tried to send the excited crowds back to their seats, but the great man's big bouncers were having none of it. Nearly the entire audience got up and raced to the front. I spent two hours six-people's-depth away from him. Now THAT was a great concert.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Green depression
I'm all for green living. I recycle everything I can (you can't recycle glass in Hong Kong - go figure), I take public transport as often as possible (although when it's 4am on Sunday morning and I have an early start, I admit I'll take a cab home rather than wait for the night bus), I avoid using carrier bags whenever possible, carrying the cool Twiggy M&S bag my friend brought me back from the UK or an equally durable canvas bag from the local Japanese store Citysuper, I switch off lights, unplug phone/camera/ipod chargers, try to be sparing with water when showering and brushing teeth, try to eat veggie a couple days a week, make my own lunches at least a couple times a week, and when I buy, I rinse and recycle/clean and reuse the tubs.
Reading the statistics on how endangered our planet is should be enough to spur all of us into doing something, no matter how little, to reduce our negative impact on the Earth. Some people are able to take big steps, refitting their homes with solar panels, growing their own vegetables and grain, and selling or swapping any extras, giving up anything that isn't proven to be eco/sustainable/ethical and generally living as paragons of virtue. Some take a slightly less extreme path, such as my good friend Jade who writes the fabulous Jungle Fever blog - she is doing small things in the big city to try to live a greener life and encourage her readers to follow suit. And then there are people like me who do try, blame their surroundings when they don't do more, and then get scared when they read how soon the polar caps might melt.
Two green things depressed me this week. The first was reading last month's Marie Claire. The magazine has recently shifted its focus onto being green and glamorous, featuring designers that use ethical production methods and eco-friendly fabrics, all-natural beauty products, environmentally friendly holiday destinations and celebs who are making a difference to the way they live in order to help the planet. All well and good. In fact, very commendable, given how popular a magazine it is.
But I have several problems. The first being that, as much as I love them, magazines are not very green. They're 200+ pages of glossy former trees. Even if you pass them around to friends then recycle them, and even if they're from sustainable forests or recycled paper, they're STILL paper. And this one comes out every month.
Another issue I had is the price of some of the suggested alternatives for makeup/clothing/holidays-without-travel. I just can't afford to pay or justify paying £50 for face wash. I don't think it's being cheap - I would just rather go and watch the ballet or restock my bookshelves or fill up my freezer (more energy efficient than leaving it empty). And paying several hundred pounds for a pair of jeans, as addicted to them as I am is criminal - I'd much rather give it away. Or, more sensibly, sponsor a child or save an acre of rainforest.
Something else that riled me was the placement of adverts. I understand that a publication like Marie Claire cannot, overnight, change from high-end fashion glossy to hemp-wearing handout. But it seems rather ironic to have a feature on how beautiful "green" clothes brands are (no cardigans or Jesus sandals here), and how we should spend large sums on one quality piece that we're assured was made by real grown-ups, not eight-year-olds, and on the following page to have an advert for an underwear set (bra and pants) from Matalan for only a fiver! Or how about the reams of adverts and mini-articles on taking holidays in Britain, taking the train to get there and either going posh camping or staying in a manor house (including one in my oh-so-boring West Country hometown) or on a farm, and then doing exotic photoshoots for the fashion photo story in Nevis, in the Caribbean. Don't try to tell me that the Caucasian model, the stylists, photographers, wardrobe assistants just "happened" to live there.
It's all very well to encourage people to be greener and make more of an effort. But this issue came across as a rather depressing sermon - it not only highlighted how much trouble the world is in (good), it was very patronising to all of us who can't afford to install our own windmills in the back garden, or who don't have the space to grown oats and beans and barley. Bad show, Marie Claire. Find a balance.
The second depressing green happening is more controllable. My walk-in wardrobe (sorting of spare bedroom) continues apace. I decided on Saturday to go to Ikea and check out storage options. I had been going to buy a second wardrobe, but decided last minute for the time being AT LEAST to make do with a clothes rail. I've actually decided I prefer it - with the acres of space in my flat (note sarcasm), it works better. And it adds to the illusion of wardrobe walk-inibility. Decided to hang up all my dresses on the not-insubstantially-sized rack. And filled it. I also filled the spaces I'd created for tops. And I still have clothes to put away. I was utterly disgusted by the amount of clothes I own. I already packed up and gave away three huge amah bags of stuff. And I still have so much more.
I've tried going through it again, and it's not the case that I have a lot of stuff I don't wear and am just hanging onto - despite my hoarding tendencies. Apart from a couple of more formal dresses, I wear everything on a regular basis - being media, we don't have a real dress code, so work gear tends to be jeans and a tank or a summer skirt and t-shirt. But here's the question: do I ditch (well, donate) half of my clothes, even if I regularly wear them? And just make do with having fewer items, and work on ways to mix it up? Or do I just accept that I've bought the clothes, and not shop anymore. I mean, avoid the shops - and the amazing Hong Kong sales - for a year?
This will be tough. I've already told myself I'm not going shopping for all of August (clothes/belongings shopping, that is!). I'm hopefully going to NYC in September, so I will look at The Gap and browse the stores, but I'm determined not to get carried away. I can't afford to, not in terms of cash, but in terms of my impact on the world and my wardrobe rails. It's going to be tough. But honestly, I think if I keep going into that room and reminding myself of how much I own, I won't be racing to the shops. I disgust myself!
And as for my shoes...
Well, here's to a month of avoiding Hong Kong's national sport. Wish me luck. I might have to do something like, shock, horror, read a book instead.
Reading the statistics on how endangered our planet is should be enough to spur all of us into doing something, no matter how little, to reduce our negative impact on the Earth. Some people are able to take big steps, refitting their homes with solar panels, growing their own vegetables and grain, and selling or swapping any extras, giving up anything that isn't proven to be eco/sustainable/ethical and generally living as paragons of virtue. Some take a slightly less extreme path, such as my good friend Jade who writes the fabulous Jungle Fever blog - she is doing small things in the big city to try to live a greener life and encourage her readers to follow suit. And then there are people like me who do try, blame their surroundings when they don't do more, and then get scared when they read how soon the polar caps might melt.
Two green things depressed me this week. The first was reading last month's Marie Claire. The magazine has recently shifted its focus onto being green and glamorous, featuring designers that use ethical production methods and eco-friendly fabrics, all-natural beauty products, environmentally friendly holiday destinations and celebs who are making a difference to the way they live in order to help the planet. All well and good. In fact, very commendable, given how popular a magazine it is.
But I have several problems. The first being that, as much as I love them, magazines are not very green. They're 200+ pages of glossy former trees. Even if you pass them around to friends then recycle them, and even if they're from sustainable forests or recycled paper, they're STILL paper. And this one comes out every month.
Another issue I had is the price of some of the suggested alternatives for makeup/clothing/holidays-without-travel. I just can't afford to pay or justify paying £50 for face wash. I don't think it's being cheap - I would just rather go and watch the ballet or restock my bookshelves or fill up my freezer (more energy efficient than leaving it empty). And paying several hundred pounds for a pair of jeans, as addicted to them as I am is criminal - I'd much rather give it away. Or, more sensibly, sponsor a child or save an acre of rainforest.
Something else that riled me was the placement of adverts. I understand that a publication like Marie Claire cannot, overnight, change from high-end fashion glossy to hemp-wearing handout. But it seems rather ironic to have a feature on how beautiful "green" clothes brands are (no cardigans or Jesus sandals here), and how we should spend large sums on one quality piece that we're assured was made by real grown-ups, not eight-year-olds, and on the following page to have an advert for an underwear set (bra and pants) from Matalan for only a fiver! Or how about the reams of adverts and mini-articles on taking holidays in Britain, taking the train to get there and either going posh camping or staying in a manor house (including one in my oh-so-boring West Country hometown) or on a farm, and then doing exotic photoshoots for the fashion photo story in Nevis, in the Caribbean. Don't try to tell me that the Caucasian model, the stylists, photographers, wardrobe assistants just "happened" to live there.
It's all very well to encourage people to be greener and make more of an effort. But this issue came across as a rather depressing sermon - it not only highlighted how much trouble the world is in (good), it was very patronising to all of us who can't afford to install our own windmills in the back garden, or who don't have the space to grown oats and beans and barley. Bad show, Marie Claire. Find a balance.
The second depressing green happening is more controllable. My walk-in wardrobe (sorting of spare bedroom) continues apace. I decided on Saturday to go to Ikea and check out storage options. I had been going to buy a second wardrobe, but decided last minute for the time being AT LEAST to make do with a clothes rail. I've actually decided I prefer it - with the acres of space in my flat (note sarcasm), it works better. And it adds to the illusion of wardrobe walk-inibility. Decided to hang up all my dresses on the not-insubstantially-sized rack. And filled it. I also filled the spaces I'd created for tops. And I still have clothes to put away. I was utterly disgusted by the amount of clothes I own. I already packed up and gave away three huge amah bags of stuff. And I still have so much more.
I've tried going through it again, and it's not the case that I have a lot of stuff I don't wear and am just hanging onto - despite my hoarding tendencies. Apart from a couple of more formal dresses, I wear everything on a regular basis - being media, we don't have a real dress code, so work gear tends to be jeans and a tank or a summer skirt and t-shirt. But here's the question: do I ditch (well, donate) half of my clothes, even if I regularly wear them? And just make do with having fewer items, and work on ways to mix it up? Or do I just accept that I've bought the clothes, and not shop anymore. I mean, avoid the shops - and the amazing Hong Kong sales - for a year?
This will be tough. I've already told myself I'm not going shopping for all of August (clothes/belongings shopping, that is!). I'm hopefully going to NYC in September, so I will look at The Gap and browse the stores, but I'm determined not to get carried away. I can't afford to, not in terms of cash, but in terms of my impact on the world and my wardrobe rails. It's going to be tough. But honestly, I think if I keep going into that room and reminding myself of how much I own, I won't be racing to the shops. I disgust myself!
And as for my shoes...
Well, here's to a month of avoiding Hong Kong's national sport. Wish me luck. I might have to do something like, shock, horror, read a book instead.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Hair today, gone tomorrow...
I'm getting slightly - only slightly - concerned about the amount of hair I lose every time I wash, or even wet, it. During my five-time-a-week soak and slap (get hair really wet then slap on a load of conditioner before my curl-enhancing product), I seem to lose about a golf ball-sized mass of curls. During my bi-weekly wash (dry, curly hair does not need to and should not be washed much more than that, it just makes it drier), I seem to lose another nectarine's worth. Is this normal? Is this OK? Am I going bald? Can I prevent it? And if so, how?
Questions and worries that require a lot more research than I've had time for. I suspect there's something I can eat to help matters, and I desperately hope that it involves avocados. That would make life very, very enjoyable.
In my new, not-going-out-due-to-house-moving-skintness life (get paid early next week, hurrah!), I've been spending a lot of time on my makeshift sofa (the actual sofa is under piles of amah bags and I can't move it alone, so I've got my emergency friend-staying-over mattresses folded and set up, I'm such a student) watching TV. Oh, and reading recipes, that's right, whole point. And speaking of avocados, I read a deliciously simple recipe in The Notting Hill Cookbook for "Mexican soup", or something (will have to verify). Basically you make up a batch of chicken broth (from a roast chicken carcass, couple carrots, an onion, some woody herbs like bay and thyme, optional stock cube), boil it all up, strain, cool, freeze some for later use), heat up a bowl per person, then chuck in finely sliced red onion, chunks of avocado, plenty of fresh coriander, a squeeze of lime and chilli if you like it spicy. What could be simpler yet more appealing when you get home late from a concert, can't face a big meal, or simply want something to whet your appetite for bigger things.
The avocado used to get a lot of stick for being "fattening" and "calorific". But too much of anything is bad, so why this nutrient-packed snack got a bad rap is beyond me. They contain only monounsaturated fat - the good type, that may help reduce the risk of heart disease and cancer. They're also loaded with protein, beta-carotene (which converts to Vitamin A) and Vitamin E, making them super-healthy. I'm lucky that my West Indian mum introduced me to them at a very young age - a half on a plate with French dressing and sliced cucumber was a common starter for me as soon as I could hold a spoon - and I haven't looked back. I love when she visits the West Indies and comes back with a football-sized specimen - it lasts a good couple of meals, although I think if I were left alone with one, I'd finish it off in one sitting.
And probably be violently ill afterwards, but sometimes you have to make the sacrifice.
My favourite way to eat this powerfruit is with a little salt, just scooped straight from the shell, or a la Mama, with a sharp salad dressing. Mexican guacamole is a great way to serve them (mush it up with lime juice, a bit of chili and coriander), and they also taste divine with various seafoods (garlicky prawns. griddled tuna), chicken (slice up some grilled chicken and toss with chopped tomatoes and avocado and a good squeeze of lemon juice then shove in a pitta), melted cheddar, feta cheese, coriander... there's very little that can't be improved by a side serving of avo!
It also makes a great mask for dry skin (with or without the addition of some honey and/or yoghurt) and dry hair - mush it up and slap it on, wrap your head in cling film (OH, how my university housemates laughed the first time I did this) and wander round for 30 minutes before shampooing it all out.
Come to think of it, it's been a while since I've done a natural hair mask. Maybe this will be the answer to my problem. Maybe I'll try one this week - either avocado or banana-based - and report back...
Questions and worries that require a lot more research than I've had time for. I suspect there's something I can eat to help matters, and I desperately hope that it involves avocados. That would make life very, very enjoyable.
In my new, not-going-out-due-to-house-moving-skintness life (get paid early next week, hurrah!), I've been spending a lot of time on my makeshift sofa (the actual sofa is under piles of amah bags and I can't move it alone, so I've got my emergency friend-staying-over mattresses folded and set up, I'm such a student) watching TV. Oh, and reading recipes, that's right, whole point. And speaking of avocados, I read a deliciously simple recipe in The Notting Hill Cookbook for "Mexican soup", or something (will have to verify). Basically you make up a batch of chicken broth (from a roast chicken carcass, couple carrots, an onion, some woody herbs like bay and thyme, optional stock cube), boil it all up, strain, cool, freeze some for later use), heat up a bowl per person, then chuck in finely sliced red onion, chunks of avocado, plenty of fresh coriander, a squeeze of lime and chilli if you like it spicy. What could be simpler yet more appealing when you get home late from a concert, can't face a big meal, or simply want something to whet your appetite for bigger things.
The avocado used to get a lot of stick for being "fattening" and "calorific". But too much of anything is bad, so why this nutrient-packed snack got a bad rap is beyond me. They contain only monounsaturated fat - the good type, that may help reduce the risk of heart disease and cancer. They're also loaded with protein, beta-carotene (which converts to Vitamin A) and Vitamin E, making them super-healthy. I'm lucky that my West Indian mum introduced me to them at a very young age - a half on a plate with French dressing and sliced cucumber was a common starter for me as soon as I could hold a spoon - and I haven't looked back. I love when she visits the West Indies and comes back with a football-sized specimen - it lasts a good couple of meals, although I think if I were left alone with one, I'd finish it off in one sitting.
And probably be violently ill afterwards, but sometimes you have to make the sacrifice.
My favourite way to eat this powerfruit is with a little salt, just scooped straight from the shell, or a la Mama, with a sharp salad dressing. Mexican guacamole is a great way to serve them (mush it up with lime juice, a bit of chili and coriander), and they also taste divine with various seafoods (garlicky prawns. griddled tuna), chicken (slice up some grilled chicken and toss with chopped tomatoes and avocado and a good squeeze of lemon juice then shove in a pitta), melted cheddar, feta cheese, coriander... there's very little that can't be improved by a side serving of avo!
It also makes a great mask for dry skin (with or without the addition of some honey and/or yoghurt) and dry hair - mush it up and slap it on, wrap your head in cling film (OH, how my university housemates laughed the first time I did this) and wander round for 30 minutes before shampooing it all out.
Come to think of it, it's been a while since I've done a natural hair mask. Maybe this will be the answer to my problem. Maybe I'll try one this week - either avocado or banana-based - and report back...
Monday, July 21, 2008
Enough is enough...
It is done. I have moved house. All my worldly possession (bar one radiator, two standard lamps, one folding table, my landline phone, a box full of cans of brand new tennis balls that my friend is going to collect and a HUGE roll of bubble wrap) are now in my new 37th floor flat. It's quite a relief to have finished that. The problem is, my new house is now a sea of stripy canvas bags. I can get in the front door, and that's about it. I have to get out my ice picks and crampons to scale the mountain of Stuff.
I've quite cunningly left my bedroom empty (apart from the bedding which is yet to be unpacked and put away), so I can sit on the bed and pretend that the hell in the living area is all in my imagination, and my whole flat is as empty and uncluttered as the bedroom. It's a nice fantasy. Because then I come out of my bedroom into the mire again, and drop straight back to Earth.
The first thing I sorted out after the movers - and my god, these men are miracle workers, it took them less than an hour to move all that stuff from one place to the other, including dissembling and reassembling a bed and a wardrobe - was my TV. There's something just reassuring about switching your TV on, even when the rest of the world seems to be in disarray. I put in Pride & Prejudice (the mid-90s spectacular, not the one with that pretender Keira Knightley). I must have watched it about 15 times, but it never gets (too) old. There's something about the costumes, the scenery, the loveliness of Colin Firth and Crispin Bonham-Carter, the sheer stupidity of Mrs Bennett and Lydia, Lizzy's common sense and cool hair, and best of all, the sharp wit and general coolness of my favourite character, Mr Bennett. Having P&P in the background, despite the piles of rubbish, made it feel like home.
It felt less like home this weekend every time I looked at what I have to accomplish in the coming days/weeks. I just don't know - and I know I've pondered this before, but really - how one person has so much stuff. Particularly clothes. I had hoped to have an SATC-style walk-in wardrobe in my spare room, but that plan was terminated when the landlord's wardrobe, which I asked the movers to transfer from the main bedroom to the spare, was revealed to be ROTTING on the back.
Anyway, the real point of this post was to talk about jeans. When is "enough" enough? My friend sent me an email about the opening of a new 7 For All Mankind branch, and she gets a discount. But I had to stop and think about how many pairs I already own. I have one pair of 7, which I love, but I refuse to spend over HK$2,000 on jeans. I have a great pair of 35" nearly-skinny Levi's, but I had to chop the bottoms off because I'd dragged them around so much, so they're currently "winter" jeans so I can tuck the hacked off ends into boots. Ditto a pair of Gap Long and Lean. My sister got me a pair of Long and Lean skinnies, but they were "7-year fade", or something - which seemed to mean holey... which was fine in the knee and near the ankle, but since I discovered an unfortunate crotch hole, I haven't worn them again. I know I should either fix them or ditch them, but that would require organisation. I have a pair from Mango that I got in the sales because I'd seen SO many people wear cool Mango jeans, but this are just OK. And a great pair of "Diesel" I picked up in Thailand which fit really nicely, but are super-comfy, if a tiny bit shorter than I'd like. My Calvins are too big now - I should just give them away, but they served me so well. I have a pair of Boyfriend cut from Uniqlo, of all places, that remind me of my "carpenter" jeans I had when I was 15 and LOVED. Loved so much, in fact, that I had a second pair. And at Chinese New Year I bought two pairs at Zara in the sales because they were so darn cheap and soooo long. Finally jeans I can wear with super-high heels and not worry about them looking funny.
But yes. There is, I think, the full list. I think I have too many pairs. And yet I wear all of them, and regularly. I wear jeans no matter what the weather. I can make them work for all but the very smartest of occasions. I shove a tank, a printed tee, a cardi, a blazer (just bought, despite all the mess and rubbish, a pinstriped blazer for $200, madness, in the sales, that will go with everything), a cami or a dress over them. I'm a jeans girl.
But is enough enough?
Speaking of, that's a really great song that I got stuck in my head the other day, so had to YouTube it - while the Donna Summer vocals are self-evident, I hadn't realised it was a duet with Barbra Streisand! So in honour of my ongoing fight with myself over owning Too Much, here it is.
And because it's all about the jeans, and it's too sunny out to be wasting time at the computer, here's a little something while I go out to play.
I've quite cunningly left my bedroom empty (apart from the bedding which is yet to be unpacked and put away), so I can sit on the bed and pretend that the hell in the living area is all in my imagination, and my whole flat is as empty and uncluttered as the bedroom. It's a nice fantasy. Because then I come out of my bedroom into the mire again, and drop straight back to Earth.
The first thing I sorted out after the movers - and my god, these men are miracle workers, it took them less than an hour to move all that stuff from one place to the other, including dissembling and reassembling a bed and a wardrobe - was my TV. There's something just reassuring about switching your TV on, even when the rest of the world seems to be in disarray. I put in Pride & Prejudice (the mid-90s spectacular, not the one with that pretender Keira Knightley). I must have watched it about 15 times, but it never gets (too) old. There's something about the costumes, the scenery, the loveliness of Colin Firth and Crispin Bonham-Carter, the sheer stupidity of Mrs Bennett and Lydia, Lizzy's common sense and cool hair, and best of all, the sharp wit and general coolness of my favourite character, Mr Bennett. Having P&P in the background, despite the piles of rubbish, made it feel like home.
It felt less like home this weekend every time I looked at what I have to accomplish in the coming days/weeks. I just don't know - and I know I've pondered this before, but really - how one person has so much stuff. Particularly clothes. I had hoped to have an SATC-style walk-in wardrobe in my spare room, but that plan was terminated when the landlord's wardrobe, which I asked the movers to transfer from the main bedroom to the spare, was revealed to be ROTTING on the back.
Anyway, the real point of this post was to talk about jeans. When is "enough" enough? My friend sent me an email about the opening of a new 7 For All Mankind branch, and she gets a discount. But I had to stop and think about how many pairs I already own. I have one pair of 7, which I love, but I refuse to spend over HK$2,000 on jeans. I have a great pair of 35" nearly-skinny Levi's, but I had to chop the bottoms off because I'd dragged them around so much, so they're currently "winter" jeans so I can tuck the hacked off ends into boots. Ditto a pair of Gap Long and Lean. My sister got me a pair of Long and Lean skinnies, but they were "7-year fade", or something - which seemed to mean holey... which was fine in the knee and near the ankle, but since I discovered an unfortunate crotch hole, I haven't worn them again. I know I should either fix them or ditch them, but that would require organisation. I have a pair from Mango that I got in the sales because I'd seen SO many people wear cool Mango jeans, but this are just OK. And a great pair of "Diesel" I picked up in Thailand which fit really nicely, but are super-comfy, if a tiny bit shorter than I'd like. My Calvins are too big now - I should just give them away, but they served me so well. I have a pair of Boyfriend cut from Uniqlo, of all places, that remind me of my "carpenter" jeans I had when I was 15 and LOVED. Loved so much, in fact, that I had a second pair. And at Chinese New Year I bought two pairs at Zara in the sales because they were so darn cheap and soooo long. Finally jeans I can wear with super-high heels and not worry about them looking funny.
But yes. There is, I think, the full list. I think I have too many pairs. And yet I wear all of them, and regularly. I wear jeans no matter what the weather. I can make them work for all but the very smartest of occasions. I shove a tank, a printed tee, a cardi, a blazer (just bought, despite all the mess and rubbish, a pinstriped blazer for $200, madness, in the sales, that will go with everything), a cami or a dress over them. I'm a jeans girl.
But is enough enough?
Speaking of, that's a really great song that I got stuck in my head the other day, so had to YouTube it - while the Donna Summer vocals are self-evident, I hadn't realised it was a duet with Barbra Streisand! So in honour of my ongoing fight with myself over owning Too Much, here it is.
And because it's all about the jeans, and it's too sunny out to be wasting time at the computer, here's a little something while I go out to play.
Friday, July 18, 2008
T minus four hours... ooh, tea...
Tonight is the night. My entire life will reach a brand new level – 37th floor, to be precise. Not that much of a jump, I guess, seeing as I've lived on the 26th for the last six years, but you know. Change. And yes, I may only be moving to the next-door tower, a fact which has caused much mirth amongst my friends –especially those who have spent the last few years moving from the peninsular to the island and back again, maybe stopping for a stint with the parents before heading out again –but it's a big deal! Tonight, the moving men come.
Apparently in Hong Kong, moving men will do EVERYTHING –literally. If you want them to empty your wardrobe and hang everything up again, they will. And most people get them to do that. But I've been trying to make their lives as easy as possible. I've cleared the stuff from in front of the Big Items so that when they arrive, they don't have to work to get to the sofa/bed/wardrobe. I've unpacked all my bathroom stuff (I have a LOT. I mean, I dumped a lot, but I still have loads, filling the cupboards, overflowing the shelves; I'm going to have to look into Storage Systems at Ikea, or whatever they call it, as though it's a science). I took over several amah bags of stuff last night so that they have less to do – I was "that person" in the lift that you really don't want to stand next to. (Those bags are HEAVY and I'm unfit! Rexona only works so well... ) And I'm more than willing to step up and continue the manual labour tonight, if that's the way they want things to roll. It's like cleaning before the cleaner arrives.
Ideally, of course, they'll be HAPPY to let me (and potentially my kind work friend) just sit on the sofa (obviously that's the first thing that needs to be moved, closely followed by the TV, natch...) and oversee them. But I think I'd get itchy feet. And worry that it was all going to go horribly wrong. Maybe I'll just accompany them on every round, getting totally in their way and getting them utterly annoyed. Until one of them turns round and swears at me. Luckily (and unusually for a non-speaker) my limited Cantonese doesn't extend to much cursing, so I'll probably smile back and offer him a beer.
Which reminds me: you're supposed to always have things like beers and Coke to offer workmen, aren't you? I am such a child in this respect. I'm no good at tipping bellhops, feel really uncomfortable when I get a cleaner or a workman in, and don't know how to address awkward subject matters. (How do you say "So did he dump you?" less bluntly? It's not a nice thing to ask, however you couch it!)
I think it's partly our generation - in our rush to grow up, we failed to learn some of the basic adult skills. I had a bit of a sniffle at work on Tuesday - I got through a box of 150 tissues in the office - so went straight home and straight to bed. At 6.45pm. Then began the dilemma: I was running a fever, or so I thought, and knew you have to rehydrate the system. But I wasn't sure whether you're supposed to sweat the fever out or keep lightly covered in loose-fitting clothes in a temperate climate.
As it was, I felt freezing cold, so I wrapped up in my duvet, despite the 30 degree weather outside and fell into an unsettled and unsettling sleep. I dreamt in a random south Asian-sounding language that I definitely do not speak in real life, nobody spoke English, yet I knew what was going on; I was reading a book in the dream, but I couldn't understand what it was about, not because I didn't get the storyline nor solely because it wasn't in English (naturally), but because, it later transpired, nobody could understand it until they fully came to terms with the traditional Indian system of castes. And to do that you had to be on a higher spiritual plain.
Yes, I think I was mildly delirious: another dream was about the debate whether it is humanly possible to be loved when you are stricken with fever, not in some self-pitying, lonely spinster way (I'm not!), but in a philosophical Kantian (do I mean Kant? I doubt it) way. Truly bizarre. And what's more bizarre is that I KNEW in my dreams that they were bizarre and nonsensical! Anyway. I digress.
So, in a move I thought late-20ers were supposed to have grown out of, I called my mum for advice. Apparently she'd taught me well, and I did everything by the book. She also recommended I do a steam over a bowl of boiling water and "anything, darling, do you have any essential oils? Eucalyptus or lavender? Or even just salt works". That really helped unblock my bunged-up nostrils.
And it's funny: you can be nearly 30, you can have lived alone for years and done whatever you've done that you'd never tell your parents. But sometimes, a girl just has to call home and speak to her mum. Just to check that your interpretation of "adulthood" is OK in her book.
Apparently in Hong Kong, moving men will do EVERYTHING –literally. If you want them to empty your wardrobe and hang everything up again, they will. And most people get them to do that. But I've been trying to make their lives as easy as possible. I've cleared the stuff from in front of the Big Items so that when they arrive, they don't have to work to get to the sofa/bed/wardrobe. I've unpacked all my bathroom stuff (I have a LOT. I mean, I dumped a lot, but I still have loads, filling the cupboards, overflowing the shelves; I'm going to have to look into Storage Systems at Ikea, or whatever they call it, as though it's a science). I took over several amah bags of stuff last night so that they have less to do – I was "that person" in the lift that you really don't want to stand next to. (Those bags are HEAVY and I'm unfit! Rexona only works so well... ) And I'm more than willing to step up and continue the manual labour tonight, if that's the way they want things to roll. It's like cleaning before the cleaner arrives.
Ideally, of course, they'll be HAPPY to let me (and potentially my kind work friend) just sit on the sofa (obviously that's the first thing that needs to be moved, closely followed by the TV, natch...) and oversee them. But I think I'd get itchy feet. And worry that it was all going to go horribly wrong. Maybe I'll just accompany them on every round, getting totally in their way and getting them utterly annoyed. Until one of them turns round and swears at me. Luckily (and unusually for a non-speaker) my limited Cantonese doesn't extend to much cursing, so I'll probably smile back and offer him a beer.
Which reminds me: you're supposed to always have things like beers and Coke to offer workmen, aren't you? I am such a child in this respect. I'm no good at tipping bellhops, feel really uncomfortable when I get a cleaner or a workman in, and don't know how to address awkward subject matters. (How do you say "So did he dump you?" less bluntly? It's not a nice thing to ask, however you couch it!)
I think it's partly our generation - in our rush to grow up, we failed to learn some of the basic adult skills. I had a bit of a sniffle at work on Tuesday - I got through a box of 150 tissues in the office - so went straight home and straight to bed. At 6.45pm. Then began the dilemma: I was running a fever, or so I thought, and knew you have to rehydrate the system. But I wasn't sure whether you're supposed to sweat the fever out or keep lightly covered in loose-fitting clothes in a temperate climate.
As it was, I felt freezing cold, so I wrapped up in my duvet, despite the 30 degree weather outside and fell into an unsettled and unsettling sleep. I dreamt in a random south Asian-sounding language that I definitely do not speak in real life, nobody spoke English, yet I knew what was going on; I was reading a book in the dream, but I couldn't understand what it was about, not because I didn't get the storyline nor solely because it wasn't in English (naturally), but because, it later transpired, nobody could understand it until they fully came to terms with the traditional Indian system of castes. And to do that you had to be on a higher spiritual plain.
Yes, I think I was mildly delirious: another dream was about the debate whether it is humanly possible to be loved when you are stricken with fever, not in some self-pitying, lonely spinster way (I'm not!), but in a philosophical Kantian (do I mean Kant? I doubt it) way. Truly bizarre. And what's more bizarre is that I KNEW in my dreams that they were bizarre and nonsensical! Anyway. I digress.
So, in a move I thought late-20ers were supposed to have grown out of, I called my mum for advice. Apparently she'd taught me well, and I did everything by the book. She also recommended I do a steam over a bowl of boiling water and "anything, darling, do you have any essential oils? Eucalyptus or lavender? Or even just salt works". That really helped unblock my bunged-up nostrils.
And it's funny: you can be nearly 30, you can have lived alone for years and done whatever you've done that you'd never tell your parents. But sometimes, a girl just has to call home and speak to her mum. Just to check that your interpretation of "adulthood" is OK in her book.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Ever closer...
I finally picked up the keys to my new apartment yesterday morning. And handed over far too much money to the UBS-employed landlord (like he needs it!). I'm finally getting excited about the prospect of moving.
Of course, this could be because, whenever I feel like the canvas/cardboard jungle that is my current flat is getting too much, I can go and sit in the empty loveliness of New Flat. So far, I've moved the dehumidifier, vacuum cleaner and a bookshelf in there. Maybe I should just keep it like that.
After signing the lease (and going home for a much needed brunch - how I wasn't hungover after Saturday night's wine, wine, COSMO, wine, wine, wine, vodka lime, vodka lime, champagne, random straight vodka, I don't know), it was time to start cleaning. I always assumed a landlord was responsible for ensuring his property was clean before letting it - and to be fair, it was surface clean - but in Hong Kong, the tenant has no rights. And thus no expectations. I was very lucky to have someone help me clean the kitchen. She was in there nearly four hours. I may be a hoarding pig who enjoys living in a pile of books and clothes, but seriously, some people are FILTHY. The cupboards in the kitchen and bathroom were just repulsive, the hob alone took about an hour to scrub. The bathroom was quite gross. I bleached all over before attacking with magic bathroom cleaner and basically showering the whole place. As for a wardrobe that I'd decided to keep - I nearly suffocated from the amount of Dettox I had to spray in there. How anyone ever dared to keep clothes in there, I don't know.
As someone who thinks "housework" means getting the cleaner in every fortnight and occasionally spritzing some Dettox around, it was an exhausting day (that made me really appreciate the hard slog helpers are put through here) - I went to bed at 9.30, wuss that I am. It also made me more determined to avoid keeping so much crap. Unfortunately, a bigger space means more surfaces to clutter. It's never-ending.
It's actually incredibly cool and horrendously unnerving at the same time being in possession (possession! ha!) of two flats. It would be so easy to get used to! I have 11 days until I have to give up my current flat, and I can just imagine not bothering to do anything until the night before. That would be stupid. But quite typical. I went along this morning (I was ludicrously early for work) and it was so nice and EMPTY. How sweet it is to be spread between homes (two towers apart).
But to get onto the moan of the day, after slogging away (and sweating beyond belief), all I wanted was to luxuriate in a hot bath with some quite divine Laura Mercier Tangerine bubbles (not very bubbly, actually, so I chuck in some Johnson & Johnson baby bath, the best stuff ever). But oh no, I have one of those plugs that's uppy-downy, not a rubber plug like you tend to get in the UK. And it doesn't seal absolutely. I'd run a quarter bath, and it was leaking out like nobody's business. So I had to give up and take a shower. Why does anyone install them? They never work properly, meaning any relaxing soak planned is ruined, or fraught with wondering whether the water's going down or it's all in your imagination.
Forgive my wittering moan. Missing out on a bath makes me sulk. I guess, at least, I saved a tub of water.
Of course, this could be because, whenever I feel like the canvas/cardboard jungle that is my current flat is getting too much, I can go and sit in the empty loveliness of New Flat. So far, I've moved the dehumidifier, vacuum cleaner and a bookshelf in there. Maybe I should just keep it like that.
After signing the lease (and going home for a much needed brunch - how I wasn't hungover after Saturday night's wine, wine, COSMO, wine, wine, wine, vodka lime, vodka lime, champagne, random straight vodka, I don't know), it was time to start cleaning. I always assumed a landlord was responsible for ensuring his property was clean before letting it - and to be fair, it was surface clean - but in Hong Kong, the tenant has no rights. And thus no expectations. I was very lucky to have someone help me clean the kitchen. She was in there nearly four hours. I may be a hoarding pig who enjoys living in a pile of books and clothes, but seriously, some people are FILTHY. The cupboards in the kitchen and bathroom were just repulsive, the hob alone took about an hour to scrub. The bathroom was quite gross. I bleached all over before attacking with magic bathroom cleaner and basically showering the whole place. As for a wardrobe that I'd decided to keep - I nearly suffocated from the amount of Dettox I had to spray in there. How anyone ever dared to keep clothes in there, I don't know.
As someone who thinks "housework" means getting the cleaner in every fortnight and occasionally spritzing some Dettox around, it was an exhausting day (that made me really appreciate the hard slog helpers are put through here) - I went to bed at 9.30, wuss that I am. It also made me more determined to avoid keeping so much crap. Unfortunately, a bigger space means more surfaces to clutter. It's never-ending.
It's actually incredibly cool and horrendously unnerving at the same time being in possession (possession! ha!) of two flats. It would be so easy to get used to! I have 11 days until I have to give up my current flat, and I can just imagine not bothering to do anything until the night before. That would be stupid. But quite typical. I went along this morning (I was ludicrously early for work) and it was so nice and EMPTY. How sweet it is to be spread between homes (two towers apart).
But to get onto the moan of the day, after slogging away (and sweating beyond belief), all I wanted was to luxuriate in a hot bath with some quite divine Laura Mercier Tangerine bubbles (not very bubbly, actually, so I chuck in some Johnson & Johnson baby bath, the best stuff ever). But oh no, I have one of those plugs that's uppy-downy, not a rubber plug like you tend to get in the UK. And it doesn't seal absolutely. I'd run a quarter bath, and it was leaking out like nobody's business. So I had to give up and take a shower. Why does anyone install them? They never work properly, meaning any relaxing soak planned is ruined, or fraught with wondering whether the water's going down or it's all in your imagination.
Forgive my wittering moan. Missing out on a bath makes me sulk. I guess, at least, I saved a tub of water.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Hairy horrors
When I went to New York in 2000, I decided that was the place to get my hair cut. As the gateway to America, it has a wide range of peoples, colours, creeds, races and, most importantly to me, hair types. A place, I thought, where being mixed-race is common, where black and white, Indian and Latino, Chinese and Jewish come together in one big, happy melange. A place where the racial divide is but a blur, where Anglo-Saxons happily order siu mai, where those of Arab heritage eat Jerk chicken, where Afro-Caribbeans get their nails done in Little Korea.
OK, so I was 20, naive, hopeful. It was pre-9/11. For me, New York City symbolised the ultimate cultural melting pot, and I couldn't wait to find someone who understood me and my curls.
Besides, anyone in NYC had to have more clue that any hairdresser in Hong Kong. Faux-fro and Asian is not a common mix. Even the western hairdressers I'd approached had shrunk back in fear at the sight of my mass of trying-to-be-ringlets.
I had hoped to get an appointment at Ouidad, a salon run by a, I think, Lebanese woman with an enviable head of glossy locks. A salon dedicated to those who know the pain of curly hair and which aims to help you love your curls and accept life as a curly girl. I was so excited to learn of the existence of this place - finally, a chance to bond with fellow sufferers, talk to people about the drag of humidity, find empathy for those straight-haired "I'd do anything for your curls" comments and find a solution to the partial bane of my life.
Of course, by the time I called up to book, there wasn't an appointment available for my trip.
After the disappointment faded (fairly quickly - after all, this was New York, New Yoick! Everywhere would be able to deal with my mongrel mane!), I booked an appointment at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon at Saks, Fifth Avenue. If you can't get specialist care, you can at least go somewhere swish! Got pretty excited at the prospect of New York hair, at being dealt with by someone accustomed to the gamut of hair textures and types, and convinced my travel buddies (blonde-thick-smooth, and mousy-but-blonded-wavy on their parts) to come with and get zhuzzhed.
After a brief shopping spree (Calvin Klein had just introduced their makeup range and we'd fallen in love with it - the first lipgloss not to revolt me, just had to have it!), we entered the sleek salon, all white and bright and NYC, ready to have our tangled tresses dealt with. I had explained when I made the appointment that I was mixed race with curly, troublesome hair, and that I'd hoped to have someone who was familiar with my hair type.
It's true that to assume anything is stupid.
I sat in my chair with my tea, dreaming of the young, hip, probably gay, quarter-Mexican, eighth-Egyptian, eighth-Jamaican, quarter-Irish, eighth-Pakistani, eighth-Kenyan guy, and relaxing with the knowledge that this hairdresser would fix my life. Then I glanced up into the mirror as my stylist arrived.
The fact she was a sour-faced, dowdy 40-something in this sleek place was the least of my problems. What really hit me in the gut was that she was Chinese.
Now, if that comes across as racially insensitive, you've just ignored all of what I've written above.
And not only was this miserable middle-aged woman of an ethnicity totally removed from my own - after all, this WAS, as I repeatedly reminded myself, she was BOUND to be accustomed to hairtypes of all sorts - from her accent and the look of disdain and confusion on her face (not an easy combination, i've tried to copy it) she didn't appear to have left Hong Kong that long ago, and she didn't appear to have ever seen anything other than perfectly straight, thick, luscious Asian hair.
I was not entirely hopeful.
But the shampoo was pleasant enough (and as an aside, this is something that, no matter what your hairtype, Hong Kong has got absolutely right: you don't just get your hair cleansed, you get a full-on head and neck massage and it's glorious; Aveda seems to do it particularly well, but even the tiny local $35-shampoo places take the time to really rub you up the right way) and I reminded myself I was in NYC, all would be well.
Of course, it wasn't.
To cut a long story, and split ends, short, she took too much off, took no account of my face shape or age, and dried it in rollers. I looked like an old woman - a trendy old woman, I guess, but old, just the same - when she was done. And for the first time in my life, I burst into tears before I'd left the salon (obviously I always cry once out of sight of the stylist). But they weren't the usual tears of "obviously my hair is a mess, it's not perfect, straight gorgeousness"; these were tears of frustration, that someone I had put my trust in had failed me so badly.
OK, maybe I overreacted a soupcon. But let's face it: a girl's hair is a big part of who she is. When your hair looks good, you feel good. When you haven't washed it for days and all you can do is shove it in a ponytail and cover it with a scarf, you feel daggy. So when someone created a monstrosity on my head and expected me to pay US$150, I got mad.
And I got a discount.
I got over the hair. At least she'd introduced me to the world of short hair - a world I haven't left since. There's an upside to everything.
And if all goes according to plan, I'll be back in NYC this autumn. There are more than just the one Ouidad salon now, so chances of getting an appointment are significantly higher. And if I don't manage that, I can at least stock up on their superb Curl Control Gel. Frizz begone!
OK, so I was 20, naive, hopeful. It was pre-9/11. For me, New York City symbolised the ultimate cultural melting pot, and I couldn't wait to find someone who understood me and my curls.
Besides, anyone in NYC had to have more clue that any hairdresser in Hong Kong. Faux-fro and Asian is not a common mix. Even the western hairdressers I'd approached had shrunk back in fear at the sight of my mass of trying-to-be-ringlets.
I had hoped to get an appointment at Ouidad, a salon run by a, I think, Lebanese woman with an enviable head of glossy locks. A salon dedicated to those who know the pain of curly hair and which aims to help you love your curls and accept life as a curly girl. I was so excited to learn of the existence of this place - finally, a chance to bond with fellow sufferers, talk to people about the drag of humidity, find empathy for those straight-haired "I'd do anything for your curls" comments and find a solution to the partial bane of my life.
Of course, by the time I called up to book, there wasn't an appointment available for my trip.
After the disappointment faded (fairly quickly - after all, this was New York, New Yoick! Everywhere would be able to deal with my mongrel mane!), I booked an appointment at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door salon at Saks, Fifth Avenue. If you can't get specialist care, you can at least go somewhere swish! Got pretty excited at the prospect of New York hair, at being dealt with by someone accustomed to the gamut of hair textures and types, and convinced my travel buddies (blonde-thick-smooth, and mousy-but-blonded-wavy on their parts) to come with and get zhuzzhed.
After a brief shopping spree (Calvin Klein had just introduced their makeup range and we'd fallen in love with it - the first lipgloss not to revolt me, just had to have it!), we entered the sleek salon, all white and bright and NYC, ready to have our tangled tresses dealt with. I had explained when I made the appointment that I was mixed race with curly, troublesome hair, and that I'd hoped to have someone who was familiar with my hair type.
It's true that to assume anything is stupid.
I sat in my chair with my tea, dreaming of the young, hip, probably gay, quarter-Mexican, eighth-Egyptian, eighth-Jamaican, quarter-Irish, eighth-Pakistani, eighth-Kenyan guy, and relaxing with the knowledge that this hairdresser would fix my life. Then I glanced up into the mirror as my stylist arrived.
The fact she was a sour-faced, dowdy 40-something in this sleek place was the least of my problems. What really hit me in the gut was that she was Chinese.
Now, if that comes across as racially insensitive, you've just ignored all of what I've written above.
And not only was this miserable middle-aged woman of an ethnicity totally removed from my own - after all, this WAS, as I repeatedly reminded myself, she was BOUND to be accustomed to hairtypes of all sorts - from her accent and the look of disdain and confusion on her face (not an easy combination, i've tried to copy it) she didn't appear to have left Hong Kong that long ago, and she didn't appear to have ever seen anything other than perfectly straight, thick, luscious Asian hair.
I was not entirely hopeful.
But the shampoo was pleasant enough (and as an aside, this is something that, no matter what your hairtype, Hong Kong has got absolutely right: you don't just get your hair cleansed, you get a full-on head and neck massage and it's glorious; Aveda seems to do it particularly well, but even the tiny local $35-shampoo places take the time to really rub you up the right way) and I reminded myself I was in NYC, all would be well.
Of course, it wasn't.
To cut a long story, and split ends, short, she took too much off, took no account of my face shape or age, and dried it in rollers. I looked like an old woman - a trendy old woman, I guess, but old, just the same - when she was done. And for the first time in my life, I burst into tears before I'd left the salon (obviously I always cry once out of sight of the stylist). But they weren't the usual tears of "obviously my hair is a mess, it's not perfect, straight gorgeousness"; these were tears of frustration, that someone I had put my trust in had failed me so badly.
OK, maybe I overreacted a soupcon. But let's face it: a girl's hair is a big part of who she is. When your hair looks good, you feel good. When you haven't washed it for days and all you can do is shove it in a ponytail and cover it with a scarf, you feel daggy. So when someone created a monstrosity on my head and expected me to pay US$150, I got mad.
And I got a discount.
I got over the hair. At least she'd introduced me to the world of short hair - a world I haven't left since. There's an upside to everything.
And if all goes according to plan, I'll be back in NYC this autumn. There are more than just the one Ouidad salon now, so chances of getting an appointment are significantly higher. And if I don't manage that, I can at least stock up on their superb Curl Control Gel. Frizz begone!
Monday, July 7, 2008
My mind is like my apartment floor: cluttered and somewhat lacking in order
My flat looks like a refugee camp. There are canvas bags covering every available surface, tubs of clothes, of hair products (two tubs) of kitchenware, plates, books, DVDs on every unavailable surface. I have managed to keep my bed almost free of stuff - I ate my cereal there this morning, it was just too overwhelming to sit on the free spot on the sofa confronted by all that STUFF. It doesn't seem to matter how much I unpack, I end up with another pile of things I can't get rid of. Old stuff discovered last night included a letter from a friend HANDwritten when I was in my final year of university, he in his first year of training contract in London (how we've changed), (more) unopened bank statements from 2002-2005, my graduation photo (so THAT'S where I kept them), my diffuser (I've been looking for it since my sister gave it to me for Christmas, 2005), said sister's university offer letters, lots of blank Christmas cards (have put them in a safe place for the winter) and a fairly heinous "smily" cushion which was clearly put away for a reason.
This is NOT the mass of the stuff I'm keeping. I keep coming across paperwork I should probably keep (isn't there something about keeping records of payment for seven years? Well, I'm keeping the stuff I can find from my current 2-year-old job), and I seem to have more clothes than you'd think one person could possibly wear, and yet this is all the stuff that's on current rotation. I've got rid of stuff I haven't worn in years, I've DONE the two-year-test! Sigh. Well, I still have some time...
I guess that's the big news that's giving the whole packing malarkey more focus: I've signed a (provisional) lease, and I get the keys for my new place on or before July 13. Which is rather exciting. Nice to have a goal. I can totally imagine settling into the new flat, but I'm becoming increasingly aware that my impression of my new life is based on a total disregard for the aforementioned stacks of belongings currently strewn about the place. In my mind, I'll have just a sofa and loaded bookshelf in the living area, maybe some beanbags, and just a wardrobe in the spare room and a bed in the main room. Of course, this isn't going to happen. More space means more space to FILL with stuff. I am going to try to control my spreading habits. Hmmm.
The great thing about moving into the next door building is that it's a new start but tailored for the change-phobic. My excitement is actually overwhelming my worries. For now. Before reality sets in and I realise how broke I'm going to be for the next few months.
I met the landlord-to-be on Saturday to sign the lease, and he seems to be a good guy. A man-hungry friend asked if he was cute, but that's another story. He speaks fluent English, which is a nice change from the current ones, and accepted my lower rent offer, which makes me like him even more. There are a couple little jobs to do in the flat before I move in, and he was willing and eager to get them done. One things was getting curtains made and put up - unfortunately, this is where we may fall out.
He's clearly got a particular budget, because I was invited to select from a particular rail of fabrics - yes, he's letting me choose, which is quite cool. Or so I thought. Unfortunately, these choices are all rather HK. That is, bright, floral, or striped, or... well, pretty awful, if I'm honest. The ones in my current flat are hideous, too - but I never intended to stay as long as I have! I eventually settled on a pretty plain cream cloth - figured they'd keep the room bright and big. And they were the only really palatable choice. But the estate agent rang to say the shop didn't have the fabric in stock after all, I have to go back today and choose an alternative. I'm tempted to just say forget it, I'll buy something at Ikea. I might do that anyway. I'm too old to live with someone else's choices. If I'm not at a place where I can buy my own place, I am at least at the stage where I can choose what my home, however temporary, looks like. So we'll see if there's something non-nausea-inducing and go from there. If I get his things up and buy something else from Ikea for my stay, so be it.
In preparation for The Big Move, I'm trying to work out ways of cutting down on spending. Or so I tell myself. I spent an hour last night making enough bulghar wheat salad for three lunches (bulghar, cherry toms, red and green peppers, chick peas; might chuck in a can of tuna for wednesday) and a sort of bolognaise (BLOGnaise, ha) or ragu (minced steak, tinned toms, chopped fresh toms, splash of wine - and as further proof of my befuddled mind, I poured myself a glass to sup while I cooked and completely forgot about it while it went warm, then poured one for dinner and left it in the kitchen! - Japanese mushrooms of some sort, kidney beans and peas, with lots of lovely cumin, onions, garlic, naturally, bit of coriander powder and a touch of cinnamon) to freeze. Figured when I move, it will be good to have something in the freezer. I actually really enjoy cooking (for myself - I panic a bit when I have to work out portions for more than four) and should really do it more often. It's cheaper and far more nutritious than anything you can buy for lunch. But when you sit at work all day, it seems just too much effort. Well, I'm going to make the effort. I hope. I intend to. It's just yummier.
And when I'm finally settled in properly, I'm going to see if I can follow some of this: http://www.thekitchenrevolution.co.uk/. It just makes sense. And besides, leftovers rock.
This is NOT the mass of the stuff I'm keeping. I keep coming across paperwork I should probably keep (isn't there something about keeping records of payment for seven years? Well, I'm keeping the stuff I can find from my current 2-year-old job), and I seem to have more clothes than you'd think one person could possibly wear, and yet this is all the stuff that's on current rotation. I've got rid of stuff I haven't worn in years, I've DONE the two-year-test! Sigh. Well, I still have some time...
I guess that's the big news that's giving the whole packing malarkey more focus: I've signed a (provisional) lease, and I get the keys for my new place on or before July 13. Which is rather exciting. Nice to have a goal. I can totally imagine settling into the new flat, but I'm becoming increasingly aware that my impression of my new life is based on a total disregard for the aforementioned stacks of belongings currently strewn about the place. In my mind, I'll have just a sofa and loaded bookshelf in the living area, maybe some beanbags, and just a wardrobe in the spare room and a bed in the main room. Of course, this isn't going to happen. More space means more space to FILL with stuff. I am going to try to control my spreading habits. Hmmm.
The great thing about moving into the next door building is that it's a new start but tailored for the change-phobic. My excitement is actually overwhelming my worries. For now. Before reality sets in and I realise how broke I'm going to be for the next few months.
I met the landlord-to-be on Saturday to sign the lease, and he seems to be a good guy. A man-hungry friend asked if he was cute, but that's another story. He speaks fluent English, which is a nice change from the current ones, and accepted my lower rent offer, which makes me like him even more. There are a couple little jobs to do in the flat before I move in, and he was willing and eager to get them done. One things was getting curtains made and put up - unfortunately, this is where we may fall out.
He's clearly got a particular budget, because I was invited to select from a particular rail of fabrics - yes, he's letting me choose, which is quite cool. Or so I thought. Unfortunately, these choices are all rather HK. That is, bright, floral, or striped, or... well, pretty awful, if I'm honest. The ones in my current flat are hideous, too - but I never intended to stay as long as I have! I eventually settled on a pretty plain cream cloth - figured they'd keep the room bright and big. And they were the only really palatable choice. But the estate agent rang to say the shop didn't have the fabric in stock after all, I have to go back today and choose an alternative. I'm tempted to just say forget it, I'll buy something at Ikea. I might do that anyway. I'm too old to live with someone else's choices. If I'm not at a place where I can buy my own place, I am at least at the stage where I can choose what my home, however temporary, looks like. So we'll see if there's something non-nausea-inducing and go from there. If I get his things up and buy something else from Ikea for my stay, so be it.
In preparation for The Big Move, I'm trying to work out ways of cutting down on spending. Or so I tell myself. I spent an hour last night making enough bulghar wheat salad for three lunches (bulghar, cherry toms, red and green peppers, chick peas; might chuck in a can of tuna for wednesday) and a sort of bolognaise (BLOGnaise, ha) or ragu (minced steak, tinned toms, chopped fresh toms, splash of wine - and as further proof of my befuddled mind, I poured myself a glass to sup while I cooked and completely forgot about it while it went warm, then poured one for dinner and left it in the kitchen! - Japanese mushrooms of some sort, kidney beans and peas, with lots of lovely cumin, onions, garlic, naturally, bit of coriander powder and a touch of cinnamon) to freeze. Figured when I move, it will be good to have something in the freezer. I actually really enjoy cooking (for myself - I panic a bit when I have to work out portions for more than four) and should really do it more often. It's cheaper and far more nutritious than anything you can buy for lunch. But when you sit at work all day, it seems just too much effort. Well, I'm going to make the effort. I hope. I intend to. It's just yummier.
And when I'm finally settled in properly, I'm going to see if I can follow some of this: http://www.thekitchenrevolution.co.uk/. It just makes sense. And besides, leftovers rock.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Shower?
This morning I took the closest thing to the "one-minute shower" I've ever managed. Not wetting (detangling, dumping conditioner on, combing) hair saves a lot of time. Yes, I own and wear a bathcap (a friend recently commented on the pointlessness of hotels providing those disposable bathcaps, claiming no one uses them. I do. As does my mum. And those plastic disposable ones are great for doing hair treatments.)
Not deforesting also saves at least 10 minutes. It may be 30 degrees outside but, fortunately, in the office it's still arctic enough all year round to wear jeans, so the Gillette gets a few days off a week.
It wasn't actually as hard as I thought, getting in, washing face and body and rinsing in under two minutes. It helped that I was running late for work anyway, so didn't have time for my usual luxuriating/daydreaming - I find the bathroom an excellent place for strategising and often end up sat on the edge of the bath, fully-clothed, just planning my day/night/life - and hopped in and out.
The swift shower once again made me think about Being Green, and our role as a species on this planet. A friend of mine started a far worthier blog at the same time as I began my general rant, examining how she, and other city-dwellers, can live more greenly. Not as easy as it could/should be. We're a pretty lazy generation, and sometimes collecting my tins to take all the way down 26 floors - in the lift, on my way to work - just seems like too much hassle (or "hassel" as the HSBC cash deposit insists on spelling it; honestly, get an editor). But it shouldn't be.
I cleared and dumped a load of papers last night (including Christmas cards from my final year at secondary school - I did say that I hoarded, after all...). I tried to recycle as much as possible, including the paper box files all the junk had been living in for six years (and there's a good question - I've moved from HK to the UK and back again since my final year of school, with two addresses at least in each place - WHY do I have sixth form stuff still in my possession? I need therapy) and greetings cards. But some stuff, like personal letters (one of my university friends has been a star over the years, sending handwritten cards... I feel like we've been out of touch for the last 12 months, only sending word at birthdays and Christmas... really must work on that) and (unopened) bank statements had to just get torn up and binned. I realise someone could still come across them, but if someone has the tenacity to go through my rubbish and find ANYTHING of value, good luck to them, I say. Because I failed miserably.
Moving house makes you realise a lot about yourself - just how disorganised you are, how much value you attach to inanimate objects when you live alone and thousands of miles from family and friends, and how easy it is to convince yourself that you REALLY might need that Santa hat from carol singing in the mall three years ago. Just where do you draw the line between hanging onto something for the "just-in-case" scenario, and freeing up draw space? And do you dump it, or pass it on to a worthy cause - who knows who might suddenly want a bargain-priced Handover souvenir baseball cap, right?
Or maybe not.
Clearly some habits I need to work on.
Not deforesting also saves at least 10 minutes. It may be 30 degrees outside but, fortunately, in the office it's still arctic enough all year round to wear jeans, so the Gillette gets a few days off a week.
It wasn't actually as hard as I thought, getting in, washing face and body and rinsing in under two minutes. It helped that I was running late for work anyway, so didn't have time for my usual luxuriating/daydreaming - I find the bathroom an excellent place for strategising and often end up sat on the edge of the bath, fully-clothed, just planning my day/night/life - and hopped in and out.
The swift shower once again made me think about Being Green, and our role as a species on this planet. A friend of mine started a far worthier blog at the same time as I began my general rant, examining how she, and other city-dwellers, can live more greenly. Not as easy as it could/should be. We're a pretty lazy generation, and sometimes collecting my tins to take all the way down 26 floors - in the lift, on my way to work - just seems like too much hassle (or "hassel" as the HSBC cash deposit insists on spelling it; honestly, get an editor). But it shouldn't be.
I cleared and dumped a load of papers last night (including Christmas cards from my final year at secondary school - I did say that I hoarded, after all...). I tried to recycle as much as possible, including the paper box files all the junk had been living in for six years (and there's a good question - I've moved from HK to the UK and back again since my final year of school, with two addresses at least in each place - WHY do I have sixth form stuff still in my possession? I need therapy) and greetings cards. But some stuff, like personal letters (one of my university friends has been a star over the years, sending handwritten cards... I feel like we've been out of touch for the last 12 months, only sending word at birthdays and Christmas... really must work on that) and (unopened) bank statements had to just get torn up and binned. I realise someone could still come across them, but if someone has the tenacity to go through my rubbish and find ANYTHING of value, good luck to them, I say. Because I failed miserably.
Moving house makes you realise a lot about yourself - just how disorganised you are, how much value you attach to inanimate objects when you live alone and thousands of miles from family and friends, and how easy it is to convince yourself that you REALLY might need that Santa hat from carol singing in the mall three years ago. Just where do you draw the line between hanging onto something for the "just-in-case" scenario, and freeing up draw space? And do you dump it, or pass it on to a worthy cause - who knows who might suddenly want a bargain-priced Handover souvenir baseball cap, right?
Or maybe not.
Clearly some habits I need to work on.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Chipmunking
A week and a day ago I found out I have to move house – I knew my lease was up on July 9, but I have lived there for six years, so I (foolishly) assumed a new lease would be something the landlords would be as keen on as I was. Only they're not – they want to sell. Which really rather sucks.
It's not that I can't find a place (although if I DO have to leave by next Wednesday, I'm in rather a fix because) it's more that I have SO MUCH STUFF. I am a serious hoarder. I'd make an excellent chipmunk – burrowed away somewhere or other around the world is probably everything I've ever owned. I live in a small flat in western terms, but whole families – mum, dad, two kids, grandma – often live in spaces of the same size. My spare room is a storeroom. I just don't quite know where to start with the whole "packing" thing. (I frequently wake up with the theme song from Love Story in my head. Or “It's only just begun...” sung to the Carpenters' choon of nearly the same name.)
I packed up a plastic tub thing of winter clothes this morning, and another of dresses – didn't realise I had quite so many, must wear them more often, it's the year of the dress after all – and unpacked one of ...well, I'm not entirely sure why, but socks. I think my mum had put them there last summer, and I hadn't got round to emptying it. Hoarding, you see. And I filled an amah bag – one of those ingenious, canvas bags that seem unique to Hong Kong and southern China, that are apparently indestructible – of stuff I haven't worn for two years (or so), or that my sister left after living here for a year. In 2004 – for my former helper to do with what she will. She filled 5 amah bags on Saturday, helping me out – pots, pans, dishes, rice cooker, magic chicken roaster, juicer, stick blender, all my books.
And it STILL looks like I haven't begun to scratch the surface.
As I showered this morning, I realised I had quite a few pretty-much-empty tubes of face wash and bottles of shampoo that needed taking to the recyling bin. Then stepped out and faced the reality of my product situation.
Now, I'm a pretty low-maintenance kinda gal. Jeans, tank and flip-flops are pretty much my choice du jour Рeasy, breezy, like the Covergirl commercials say. Makeup, when I bother, is a bit of blush and some sort of eyeliner. Hair products are my indulgence Рwhen you have hair that tends to the frizzy side of things, you have to invest in quality and variety. (My current favourites: Bumble & Bumble Curl Conscious Cr̬me Рthe shampoo is useless РUmberto Giannini Curl Friends Scrunching Jelly and something by Kiehl's... silk groom, or something, not particularly for curly girls, but nourishing and seems to do something.) But my bathroom shelves are packed with products of all sorts: powders, sunscreen, foundation, eye cream, red-minimiser, body lotion, moisturiser, makeup remover, lip liner, toner, eye makeup remover... And most of them are full.
To be fair, as part of my job, I review a beauty product a week. But. It's ludicrous how much space it all takes up. So as I stood there dripping, I decided I had better start finishing off half-empty bottles and containers of product and taking them all down to recycle.
Easier said than done.
But let's see how the week progresses – maybe I'll suddenly decide I need to wear foundation and powder. Or maybe I'll find a friend who's on her way to buy some. Or maybe the theatre group I work with might want it. Someone might. It seems a shame to throw it all away. And a waste – almost negating any recycling it might facilitate.
I think the original point of the post was this – the first remnants of product I managed to use up today was John Frieda's Curl Perfecting Spray. I don't think I've used this in maybe three years. But today was a non-wetting, shove-hair-into-ponytail kinda day, so I said “What the hey", and sprayed with abandon (or rather, pumped with abandon – never fear, it was a totally Earth-friendly non-aerosol pump). This is definitely going on my never-bother-again list: I have dry, mildly frizzy, crunchy girls. It's the curly girl's nightmare. I think I'd rather have a ball of frizz atop my head. (I THINK, I say – it's a little like, I hate to say it, but Sophie's Choice. It's like asking if you'd rather sit through a lecture on The Latest Trends in Accounting or your formerly-hip, open-minded, liberated friend's now-smug-married's lecture on why it's important to “get out there": neither life-threatening or even really worthy of a place on the grand scale of life, but both rather unpleasant.)
So yes. The lesson here, fellow curlyheads, is don't bother with “curl-enhancing” sprays. Either shove your head under the shower and whack in some conditioner and a boatload of products, or tie it up – I currently favour a ribbon in lieu of a hairband and a big bushy ‘tail. I'm all for loving my semi-fro, but I realise its limitations. Some days, only a hair tie will do.
And don't hoard. There willl be tears.
It's not that I can't find a place (although if I DO have to leave by next Wednesday, I'm in rather a fix because) it's more that I have SO MUCH STUFF. I am a serious hoarder. I'd make an excellent chipmunk – burrowed away somewhere or other around the world is probably everything I've ever owned. I live in a small flat in western terms, but whole families – mum, dad, two kids, grandma – often live in spaces of the same size. My spare room is a storeroom. I just don't quite know where to start with the whole "packing" thing. (I frequently wake up with the theme song from Love Story in my head. Or “It's only just begun...” sung to the Carpenters' choon of nearly the same name.)
I packed up a plastic tub thing of winter clothes this morning, and another of dresses – didn't realise I had quite so many, must wear them more often, it's the year of the dress after all – and unpacked one of ...well, I'm not entirely sure why, but socks. I think my mum had put them there last summer, and I hadn't got round to emptying it. Hoarding, you see. And I filled an amah bag – one of those ingenious, canvas bags that seem unique to Hong Kong and southern China, that are apparently indestructible – of stuff I haven't worn for two years (or so), or that my sister left after living here for a year. In 2004 – for my former helper to do with what she will. She filled 5 amah bags on Saturday, helping me out – pots, pans, dishes, rice cooker, magic chicken roaster, juicer, stick blender, all my books.
And it STILL looks like I haven't begun to scratch the surface.
As I showered this morning, I realised I had quite a few pretty-much-empty tubes of face wash and bottles of shampoo that needed taking to the recyling bin. Then stepped out and faced the reality of my product situation.
Now, I'm a pretty low-maintenance kinda gal. Jeans, tank and flip-flops are pretty much my choice du jour Рeasy, breezy, like the Covergirl commercials say. Makeup, when I bother, is a bit of blush and some sort of eyeliner. Hair products are my indulgence Рwhen you have hair that tends to the frizzy side of things, you have to invest in quality and variety. (My current favourites: Bumble & Bumble Curl Conscious Cr̬me Рthe shampoo is useless РUmberto Giannini Curl Friends Scrunching Jelly and something by Kiehl's... silk groom, or something, not particularly for curly girls, but nourishing and seems to do something.) But my bathroom shelves are packed with products of all sorts: powders, sunscreen, foundation, eye cream, red-minimiser, body lotion, moisturiser, makeup remover, lip liner, toner, eye makeup remover... And most of them are full.
To be fair, as part of my job, I review a beauty product a week. But. It's ludicrous how much space it all takes up. So as I stood there dripping, I decided I had better start finishing off half-empty bottles and containers of product and taking them all down to recycle.
Easier said than done.
But let's see how the week progresses – maybe I'll suddenly decide I need to wear foundation and powder. Or maybe I'll find a friend who's on her way to buy some. Or maybe the theatre group I work with might want it. Someone might. It seems a shame to throw it all away. And a waste – almost negating any recycling it might facilitate.
I think the original point of the post was this – the first remnants of product I managed to use up today was John Frieda's Curl Perfecting Spray. I don't think I've used this in maybe three years. But today was a non-wetting, shove-hair-into-ponytail kinda day, so I said “What the hey", and sprayed with abandon (or rather, pumped with abandon – never fear, it was a totally Earth-friendly non-aerosol pump). This is definitely going on my never-bother-again list: I have dry, mildly frizzy, crunchy girls. It's the curly girl's nightmare. I think I'd rather have a ball of frizz atop my head. (I THINK, I say – it's a little like, I hate to say it, but Sophie's Choice. It's like asking if you'd rather sit through a lecture on The Latest Trends in Accounting or your formerly-hip, open-minded, liberated friend's now-smug-married's lecture on why it's important to “get out there": neither life-threatening or even really worthy of a place on the grand scale of life, but both rather unpleasant.)
So yes. The lesson here, fellow curlyheads, is don't bother with “curl-enhancing” sprays. Either shove your head under the shower and whack in some conditioner and a boatload of products, or tie it up – I currently favour a ribbon in lieu of a hairband and a big bushy ‘tail. I'm all for loving my semi-fro, but I realise its limitations. Some days, only a hair tie will do.
And don't hoard. There willl be tears.
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