Popcorn Economics

I will never forget the opera piggy-back rides of my childhood. It was the 1970s. There was a temple not far from where we lived. Whenever there was a temple festival, there would be open-air Chinese opera for all to see.

For love of religion, the shows or the madding crowds, I'll never know. But my grandpa would always carry me to the opera on his shoulders, where I can look over heads of the crowds, right to the stage where the drama is. The atmosphere was grand.

Without fail, grandpa would buy a stick of gooey golden malt candy for me. It was a sort of candy that costs next to nothing, but takes ages to eat.

That summed up the sound, the colour, the taste of showtime for me. The taste of malt candy still brings me back to those noisy nights.

Last weekend, Boy and I went to watch The Interpreter at the cinema. The show's good, if you like pseudo-cerebral films with an exquisitely beautiful lead. But the ending left me going "what the...??"

What struck me more than the blah finish, though, were the exorbitant prices charged for a drink and tub of popcorn. You didn't need to watch a horror movie to understand what "cut-throat" means. The action is all at the popcorn stand.

Now, consider this: if they lowered food and drink prices so people in their right minds wouldn't mind buying, they will sell lots more and not need to stop people sneaking in stuff bought from outside. That's just simple popcorn economics.

Ah, for the golden days of cheap showtime candy again.

Blatant Plug

If you have a few minutes, go read Helga's blog. It is at helgashomepage.blogspot.com

Who is Helga? She is a blonde Sydney girl with a very German name, with whom I shared a house and many dinners watching reality TV. She's the psychologist I hope to have if and when I go nutso.

One of the gems in her blog, a little-known factoid that drinking alcohol helps you remember stuff better. Mm, just as I've suspected all along....

Letting Go

"In life there is nothing certain but death and taxes.'' - Benjamin Franklin

It has been a week overshadowed by death, and by taxes. With a funeral to attend tomorrow, it got me thinking about what dying means. Unless you belong to one of them nutty movements that thinks a spaceship will come whisk you away to paradise, death is as certain as it ever gets. The final full stop. But within death itself, few things are set in stone.

We all have some kind of idea of how we want to die (painlessly), how we are likely to die (old age and illness) and how we don't want to die (insert your choice of torture).

But few people actually know with certainty how it's really going to happen, except, maybe, the poor buggers on death row. It's not just "the great leveller", it is the last great roulette. As has been a hot topic this month, when some people are confronted with a means of death too long and painful, they may wish to, um, unnaturally expedite their end. It's like letting go of life, before it lets go of you.

One thing that seems 100 per cent for sure though, is that people unfailingly get warm and fuzzy about those who died.

They always say nice things about dead people. Even if the dead dude wasn't really that compassionate and that loving, even if some mourners didn't pay much attention to him when he was alive and well. Maybe even Hitler or Pol Pot got something nice said about them by at least one person.

I used to think I'd die being blasted apart reporting some war in a land ruled by a despot leader. These days, I just hope not to hang on to life too long if I get truly ill. Hah! I am, in a sense, a let-goer.

Springtime in Hong Kong

There is something about Hong Kong that compels you to spend. Maybe it was the agreeable spring weather. Or the throngs of people doing the same thing. For a first-time visitor, the entire city was like one big mall.

There are more luxury stores here, with a greater range of gawk-worthy displays, making those in Sydney and Singapore seem like poor suburban cousins.

This is a city truly awash with Birkins. Real ones, fake ones, vintage resale ones. Of course, there are lovely things other than cult bags. Like those one-of-a-kind designs from indy shops. (Spend.) Discount cosmetics piled up so high, they look like candy mountains from afar. (Spend.) And of course, minimalist gym clothes from the giant Muji store at Times Square. (Spend.) And when you're tired, there's always heaps of food places lurking in corners. (Spend.)

I like it that the shopping zones are super-illuminated such that night seems like day. And shops and eating places are open till 11 pm, some even till midnight.

Service people were nowhere near as haughty as they're reputed to be. In fact, they actually seemed pleased to see you, which is a huge change from "it's all on the rack'' Singapore salespeople.

While Boy was busy working, I diligently racked up a four-figure shopping bill, before you can say "credit limit''.

"In Hong Kong dollars?'' he asked hopefully. Um ...n-n-nope.

But Boy was kind enough to be my self-appointed urban sherpa the next few days, when work was done.

One reason why I didn't like Lost in Translation was this: I don't understand how one can be lucky enough to stay in luxury, in one of the most happening cities in the world, and wallow miserably in the hotel instead of exploring the city. Life's too short.

I will miss Hong Kong.

As I lug my two suitcases back home (one newly bought and stuffed with goodies), I'll remember the chic little cafes and bars hidden in this ghetto-like enclave called Soho, high up the hills. The baked egg balls sold in pushcarts at the night markets. The 50 cent ferry ride that is really a 5 minute lightshow. The mix of old and new, glittery and grubby, east and west. It is a charming atmosphere money cannot buy.