The Kindness of Strangers

So it's been a while - this whole "diary" thing is not really my bag (baby), but I really should make more of an effort. I feel particularly guilty about being remiss when I read my friend Jade's wonderful entries on her blog - not only is she managing to update regularly, she's updating about the interesting, exciting, Earth-saving life she's living! Puts me to shame, I assure you.

So, even though I don't have anything particular to post about, I'm a-gonna.

In a big city like Hong Kong, it's rare to make a connection with someone you don't know. I've lived in my flat for six or seven weeks now. I've seen my next-door neighbour (the adult female member of the household) once - yesterday - and we issued a mutually muttery "Morning" before sharing the lift in silence down 37 floors. I haven't seen any of the other members of the household - although I think I caught sight of a male arm closing a window the other night. There are another seven flats on my floor, and I have seen neither hair nor hide of any of the inhabitants.

Such is city life. I lived in my last flat for six years. I spoke to the French chef maybe three times and his HK wife maybe five. When they left, I saw and said hello to my HK female neighbour maybe 10 times in two years. On the day I moved out, I had a 20-minute conversation in broken English/non-existent Cantonese about house prices and whether my soon-to-be-former landlords would be interested in selling to my soon-to-be-former neighbours. While I know it's partly my fault for a) not learning to speak Cantonese in my 13+ years here and b) just the HK way, sometimes I miss the small talk enjoyed in smaller towns by neighbours.

Mind you, I'm not a particular fan of strangers. I never strike up conversations to my neighbour on the bus. Should I find myself needing to share a table in a coffee shop, I always have a convenient book to avoid the need for comment. If someone deigns to talk to me in a bar when I'm waiting for friends, my well-rehearsed withering glare sends them cowering back to the corner.

Friendly, right?

But there are times when I'm just so agreeably surprised by the unexpected pleasantries of a stranger, I realise there is truth in the notion that "there is no such thing as a stranger; it's just a friend you haven't made yet".

Take, for example, this morning. I read on the way to work - the 15-minute train ride and 7-minute walk is a great way to get through my library. I'm currently reading the last installment of Alexander McCall Smith's von Igelfeld Trilogy. Sometimes you need a little light reading. I was just off the train, and a man walked past, clocked the cover and said "They're great, aren't they? Which one is that? Have you read the Number One Ladies' Detective Agency series?" A mini-conversation that had me smiling all the way to work. Naturally I had very little to say, but just randomly exchanging words with someone I didn't know in the middle of the train station - and knowing that's all there was to it - really made my morning.

Another time, a couple of months back, I was killing time wandering around the streets near the bar I was due to meet friends (I don't know why I went through a phase of being early for everything!). Lost in my book - it could have been the brilliant Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - a dog-walking woman approached me and asked if I was in a book club. We had a very pleasant 5-minute chat about books, reading, buying books in Hong Kong, and then we went off on our separate ways, not changed in any way, not really learning anything about ourselves or each other, but having just enjoyed an unexpected conversation that made life a little brighter.

These little exchanges remind me that, as the saying goes, no man is an island.

One further reminiscence before the off. A couple of years ago, I was on the MTR - and just a reminder, the MTR is the transport system that should exist in every major city, it's clean, fast, frequent, efficient, brightly-lit and safe - standing reading. One minute I was standing up, the next minute I was on my back, having apparently passed out. The reaction was astonishing: far from the usual and expected disinterest, three people helped me up while another couple gave up their seats amd helped me sit.

At the end of the day, while you may not become best friends with your next-door neighbour or strike up conversation with and eventually marry that random stranger you occasionally bump into at Starbucks, we're all here, we're all people, we all need conversation. And giving a little smile or comment or compliment never hurt anyone.

In fact, you might just make someone's day.

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...