When I first arrived here it was in the height of summer and I thought I was going to drown in my own sweat. Well that fearful sweat tide has returned this month with the return of summer time, or as I like to call it, Help Me My Head Is Melting Into My Neck. It feels like I’m on holiday again though, with barbecues and ball-games in the park and the return of Chinese girls in very, very short skirts. And hot pants. And legs. Lots of legs. In my opinion Chinese girls indeed have the best legs in the world. Unfortunately many of them have got the worst breath (stinky tofu).
Wiling away my time before August (when I shall gallivant through the Himalayas and India) has been more than enjoyable however. I went through to Hangzhou last week, where I partook in a crazy golf tournament (60 shots on an 18 hole course, pretty bad) where there was free beer. I was in the fruitless pursuit of a girl and ended up sleeping on her couch. The next morning I needed a number 2. Now I know I said I was never going to write another poo story but this one is good and I’m a liar. So after the business was done I went to flush the toilet and to my horror realised that the flushing mechanism had failed. Not to worry I told myself, thinking of what Jason Bourne would do in a similar situation, I took the lid off the cistern and aimed the shower head in it’s direction. No water. I tried the taps. No water. Then one of the girls tried the bathroom door handle. One by one I could hear the various female flat-mates stir, and I was with the only toilet. It had been a big night. They would need that toilet. But I couldn’t leave, I was literally held hostage by my own poo. So I waited for the flat-mates to go back to their respective rooms and made for the living room, grabbed some empty beer bottles and started to fill them with water from the water dispenser. I had to be quick, but the dispenser was piddling out liquid like a Rwandan village pump. Before one bottle was filled I heard the footsteps and the opening and closing of the bathroom door that sealed my fate. Should I do a runner? Should I pretend to be asleep so someone else could get the poo-blame? Before I could decide, the flat-mate came out. “The water isn’t working,” she noted solemnly. Standing there with my beer bottles brimming with cistern-bound water, all I could muster was, “I know.” Her face was the picture of soured revelation, we had barely talked but alas, she had seen my poo.
On a lighter note, my banker student has been thinking of new names for himself as he has decided that his current one, Whinnie, is too childlike. Fair call. He suggested Journey. I told him that was a girl’s name. Then he proffered Sam. I told him this was a good, solid, man-about-business name. Whinnie thought it was a tad boring so stating that he loved the sea and that he was of course, a man, what about Seaman? I laughed for about twenty minutes. There followed the awkward conversation of me describing to a rich Chinese banker in a Costa Coffee what semen was. I felt like his guidance teacher. So Whinnie reluctantly rubbed it out (way!) and opted for Sam.