I have been berated for leaving my journal stuck in London while I am not. That's because, though the delights of Air India do extend to the orange couches and three TV sets – all playing different channels, loudly, at the same time – of Bombay Airport's Celebrations Lounge, they do not extend to wireless or any form of internet access. It has taken me two days to get to Hong Kong, and most of those two days were spent on diazepam, my (legal) crutch for flying. On the pill bottle, it says “for going up and down.” Which made my stony-faced doctor laugh. So. Hong Kong. It's my first time and good lord, what a place. Current location: the 22nd floor of the splendid Four Seasons hotel, where I am staying courtesy of the mightily kind William Mackay, General Manager and angel, who has allowed me two complimentary nights here in return for, er, not a lot. So I am honour bound to big it up, and that is not difficult.
Let me start with the swimming pools. They are incredible. They are the most astonishingly located swimming pools I've ever swum in in my life, and I'm including the ocean pools at Bronte Bay. These ones are right on the harbour, snuck between huge well-lit skyscrapers, with fast-moving clouds overhead and the winds of what feels like an impending typhoon. And underwater music. OK, I don't get the underwater music, and it stopped me swimming underwater because I was laughing too much. But still, the Four Seasons is magnificent and everybody should stay there when they come to Hong Kong. Not least for the chorus of greeting that one is met with upon arriving from a two-day trip – via Celebrations Lounge – and one is still reeling from the cushioned richness of the Mercedes limousine, and then, from all sides, there is “Good morning Miss George” “Good morning Miss George” “Good morning Miss George.” I think there were seven people saying it but there could have been more. If you've seen the Honda advert where a choir makes the sounds of a car (supposedly) – well, it was a bit like that. I didn't know where to look. In fact, I am so unfamiliar with luxury that I have two certain reactions to it. I absolutely love it, firstly. And I wonder whether it ever gets boring. Me, I love being able to register in my room. I love the swimming changing rooms with free mini hairbrushes and litres of unctuously gorgeous lotions. I love the view from my 22nd floor window, which is water and lights. If I were a pop star or a permanently travelling businessperson, I suspect I'd be less charmed. There is also something odd about absolutely everything being anticipated and undertaken for you, so you may as well be a dummy. But I'm a not particularly rich person writing a book about sanitation, and I love it.
All that said, my other joy of the day, after taking a nap for one hour that lasted for three, was the ferry across to Kowloon that cost about 10p. Nice view, despite the clouds, though I was thinking of Spalding Gray and how damn cold it must have been drowning himself off the Staten Island ferry. The Star Ferry workers wear proper sailor outfits that sailors have long since stopped wearing and which I've never understood the point of anyway (what pratical use is the over-the-shoulder-and-stripes look?). I walked around and tried not to think of Harrison Ford, or the globalising implications of the Mr. Softee van that was dispensing E-numbers near Prada, Gucci and Insert-Insanely-Expensive-Brand-here.
I eventually stopped at the Wing Yuen Noodles and Congee Kitchen, where I was too spaced to ask what a congee was, and where, after ten minutes, a lorry drove past advertising Lotus toilet tissue, “your solution for the bathroom.” There is no escape. Drinking a passion fruit margarita at the pool bar, because I'm still addicted to the view of unnature vs. nature – and it's hard to tell who's winning – I read in the South China Morning Post, near the article about the hard-working man who started slashing his daughter's throat in her sleep, then slashed his own and jumped off his balcony, the headline “Would you drink drinking water made from sewage?” Well, yes. We probably do anyway. But that's a whole chapter. Too exhausted now to even calculate what time zone I'm supposed to adhere to or be in. I will watch some African Queen – “Yes, Mr. Allnut?” – and sleep with the curtains open over the bay of Hong Kong. With the last waking thought, as I doze off to the sight of the building on the far side of the harbour whose facade parades a series of rainbow lights – probably being something like “good god, how much electricity do they get through?”