On Thursday, I returned to Hong Kong after three weeks away. As I turned the corner back to the flat, sweating with my suitcase in 35+ degree heat, I met an old man with his t-shirt rolled up to just under his moobs (as is the style among men of a certain age in these parts). He was squatting in the street, hammer in hand, bashing away at a rusty old electric fan until it had been transformed in to a pile of bent and buckled parts. What he meant to do with them is anyone’s guess. Further on I saw our local ‘tin-man’: another old man who wanders around with bits of metal attached to his body, including breast plates and a visor over his eyes. As I write this, I can hear from the window another local character serenading us with an angry rant in what I’m guessing is pretty salty Cantonese. Nobody’s listening. Welcome back to Hong Kong.