So much for the new leaf

The unpacking continues. To say it continues apace would be an outright lie, but I emptied another couple of bags/boxes over the weekend. Granted I emptied one bag of clothes straight onto the side of the bed I don't sleep on and the pile is still lying there (another reason to add to my "Why Be Single" list), but the point is, I could put away another box!

I took a little break from the slog on Saturday and headed to that bastion of self-assembly, Ikea, for some bits and pieces as the quest for a vaguely grown-up pad continues. I had in mind some beautiful, perhaps oak, pieces (why I thought Ikea was a good idea, I'm not sure - maybe it was getting up so early on a Saturday morning for the gasman that did me in), but ended up, predictably, with stuff that I will end up either dumping or giving to Crossroads when/if I leave the Fragrant Harbour.

So, purchases ("home improvements" are not on the list of forbidden buys during my August of monetary restraint) comprise thus: one 6-foot bookshelf (cheap, cheap thing), one chest of (or "chester" as I insisted it was spelled until I was eight) drawers (ditto) and then hardier kind-of bookshelf that can go upright or, as I THINK I'll do, on its side, forming a low unit, which, in theory, will go by the sitting room windowsill.

After lugging home the cheap shelf (I hate waiting for deliveries, and I had to wait for the other two items until this week anyway), I was bruised, tired, and in no mood to deal with anything requiring a screwdriver that didn't involve vodka.

But Sunday was the day I wielded tools and put together my bookshelf. And loaded it up. Boy, I have a lot of literature. And nonsense printed and bound and calling themselves books. I already had one 6-foot bookshelf and had already filled it. I read a lot, I'll admit, but looking at my shelves makes me question my shopping habits. Since the discovery, a year or so ago, of a book warehouse in the next building to my office, I've bought about 100 books. It's fabulous - I can buy all these brand-new books for next-to-nothing and read to my heart's content. And if it's rubbish, it only cost me $10 or $20. But it does mean, even with the number I've lent or given away, I still have STACKS of books.

I know there are a number of second-hand bookstores in town, and I know there are charities that are always eager to receive stocks - but the sad truth is, I like to have books. Old, new, it doesn't matter. There's something really satisfying about a full bookshelf that no other possessions can match. Something about all the knowledge, laughter, opinions, tears, frustration, history sitting on my shelf gives me a buzz. And revisiting old favourites makes me happy - the number of times I've read Pride & Prejudice, The Wonderful Adventures of Henry Sugar and Bridget Jones' Diary is possibly embarrassing, but you've got to do what makes you happy sometimes. As long as it doesn't hurt or inconvenience others.

So I've decided, apart from the utter trash, or somewhat depressing tomes, or pointless novels, I'm hanging onto the lot. I'll happily lend or give people stuff - it's all about sharing the joy of reading – but I don't want to get bogged down in owning too much stuff - but only when it comes to books!

Besides, if I'm ever going to open my bakery-cum-cafe-cum-seocondhand-bookshop, I'll need some stocks to start it going...

Three fat ladies, 888

Today is a really lucky day over China way, the Olympics officially open tonight (at 8pm on 08.08.08) and it's my friend's 30th and she's off in Chiang Mai with UK friends hopefully getting drunk by now. Because I still have to wait 10 minutes before I leave work (so may as well watch the opening ceremony here...), I thought I'd just officially mark the existence of the day.

Even though I don't feel remotely excited about the Olympics being over the border and interrupting my TV viewing schedule.

At least the swimmers and sprinters are hot. I'll load up on Thorpedo and Asafa Powell, thanks.

Happy 888. Good luck and lots of money to all. That's what it's all about, after all.

Matters of size; or Size matters

When I get off the excellent MTR in the morning on my way to work, I take one short escalator up, then walk along a corridor for approximately 90 seconds before another couple of escalator rides to the surface.

It is during that 90-second stroll that I frequently get infuriated at the state of the city. The MTR is obviously a great place to advertise products, shops and shows - I often find out about concerts and performances there - but unfortunately much of the advertising space goes to slimming products. During my minute-and-a-half morning walk between levels, I currently pass no fewer than a dozen posters - yes, 12 - advertising slimming treatments. They are primarily for two companies: one which is the "official slimming centre" for the Miss Hong Kong pageant, and the other which features a model-slash-actress-slash-singer who put on LOTS of weight for a role and then lost it all again.

But 12 in the space of maybe 200 metres?

Hong Kong is a city obsessed with appearance, it's true. If you're not in the right label/bar/car, you're not really worth anyone's time. OK, I'm projecting my bitterness (following my rejection from M1NT on Saturday for wearing Havaianas, and not Prada pumps), but Hong Kong women do have a very unhealthy attitude towards body image. They are, for the most part, of small build. But so many of them think they're "fat" and want to lose yet more weight. And yes, when you're not carrying excess poundage, you do feel good about yourself, and you don't mind those bikini shots being posted on Flickr or Facebook - I admit that I wish I had a little less podge so the odds of being offered a seat on the train were reduced.

But if you feel you could drop a couple of pounds, the answer is not to sign up for a service that promises miracles by massaging your belly and attaching electrodes to the flab. The way forward is to slightly reduce the amount you eat and slightly increase the amount you move. Bear in mind that I am the greatest opponent of sport. I hate it. But I do know that, if I want abs of steel, there is no magic formula. Bummer, maybe, but let's be realistic.

What bugs me most, though, is that stick-thin is the order of the day. Anyone with a millimetre of flesh on them is seen as unattractive by so many women - they just want to be skin and bones. But that's a) unhealthy and b) really quite disgusting to see!

It makes me wonder how these women give birth, honestly.

In other news, two days after Alicia, I went to see Travis, same venue, but standing tickets. How very different a concert this was. Everyone in the audience was up for a good time, singing and dancing along, cheering at the top of their voices - some had even brought umbrellas for the inevitable encore choice of Why Does It Always Rain On Me? So much more enjoyable an overall experience, even if I knew only five songs of the 90 minute set as opposed to all-bar-one of Ms Keys'.

The quarter-pint of beer I gulped from my friend's cup may have helped matters, I suppose.