The Drainage Diaries
By Golden Balls
Arriving late at the start, I was slightly perplexed by the absence of anything that looked remotely like a hash. No piles of bags on benches, no eskies brimful of coldies, no chalk scrawls on the floor, no hashers. Nothing. Ah, but there was something. Indeed, a chalk scrawl: “WE ARE @ 7-11 SINOPEC” and an arrow pointing out of the park, where, just over the road, one could indeed discern a Sinopec petrol station. “What, are we the ruddy Little Sai Wan now, meeting at convenience stores near MTRs? And writing @ for at?” I hissed to nobody in particular.
Hare Mango Groove was there at the new start, actually inside the 7-11 buying beer. “No hash beer,” he lamented. “Eunuch’s got a puncture. Do you think that’s enough?” “Nah, get a few more in.”
Just behind the shop lay a cosy, intimate sitting-out area sized perfectly for the hash – yes, there was space for 10 people. “Bad back,” I lied, helping myself to a Tsingtao and parking myself on a stone bench. I settled in to watch the fun. Plod was first back, having short-cut what Mango insisted was a 13km trail. Dingaling arrived from one direction, One Eyed Jack from another. Or perhaps that was Stingray. Salesman turned up. Catch of the Day and maybe one or two others. And we all listened avidly to Dingaling’s tale of woe. Spoiler: This is boring. Stop reading now.
“I had a memo from the DSD (Drainage Services Department) pinned to my door telling me they’re digging up the road and I have to move my car. But it was all suspicious and not on official letterhead and nobody had knocked on my door to explain the situation politely like they do in Trumpton and I said I’m not having that. So I sent them an email, I did. Told them they can’t dig up the village to install much needed flushing toilets and water supplies for my neighbours without a proper note and their man asking me nicely. What do they think this is? Some bloody banana republic? I’m not having it! Told them if I move my car off my land they have to find me a nice new parking space and indemnify me against triad damage when my neighbours start puncturing the tyres, cracking eggs on the windscreen and smearing the door handles with human excrement. Oh yes, I told them all right. By email! Then my neighbours sent round a delegation to beg me to move my car so they could aspire to clean water supplies that would solve their rampant E. coli, dysentery and leptospirosis problems. But I folded my arms and said you’ll have to do better than that. Then they offered me a nice spot blocking somebody else’s spot. I told them to go drink fetid water. Finally my superiority was acknowledged with the award of the best parking space in the whole village, while the government is indemnifying my car for infinity trillion bucks. With this political triumph I intend to run for village headman later in the year with the ultimate aim of taking over Legco and running this show properly!”
We dispersed into the night.