Monday, March 10, 2008

A room with a pube



Studio Studio they call it. Well, it sounds better than Broom Cupboard Broom Cupboard, which would be more accurate. Of course, the website looks nice.
Cosy little rooms with flowers in vases. Brightly lit, serviced and clean. Cable TV and Internet access. Exclusive gym membership, and 150 square feet of proportional beauty, right in the heart of Hong Kong, all for the discount price of US$1,000 a month. A regular home from home.


Of course, after you move in you find the cable TV is in their “other location.” But of course it is.


The toilet bowl is stained brown from the water that constantly leaks from the broken cistern (Note to self: always lift the lid on the toilet before you pay the deposit).

Wet black mould is marching along the walls and floors of the shower.

The window doesn’t close, which means the room is coated with a fine layer of cement dust from the building site 20 feet away. (Note to self: always open the blinds and look out of the window before you pay the deposit).


Oh, and that exclusive gym membership? You only get that if you book for three months. So no, you can’t have it. And when you ask, you’ll be accused of asking for something you were never promised, so don’t fucking ask. (Note to self: ask questions about "exclusives" before you pay the deposit.)


I should have known better. I’m a copywriter after all. I lie for a living. So I’m grateful to Studio Studio for reminding me that in Hong Kong you should never expect to get what you are promised.

If it's fucked, it's your fault
In Hong Kong if they can lie to you, it’s your fault. You bought it, it’s fucked, it’s yours. It’s your own fault. Your problem.

I should already know this. After all, I've lived here before. So I look on Studio Studio as my "Welcome Back to Hong Kong's Bullshit" package. And I am grateful. Every city has a different system, and this is Hong Kong's. Thanks to Studio Studio, I'm getting reacquainted with the way this particular city does business.

If it's fucked, it's your fault.

There’s a definite limit to tolerance though. I can tolerate the fact that there’s no toilet paper and no cleaning stuff. I can tolerate the fact that the cleaners use my dish sponge to clean the room. I can even tolerate the constant sound of running water from a broken cistern that they refuse to fix, and the brown stained toilet bowl.

There is a limit ...

But every man has a limit to tolerance.



With me, it’s living with other people’s pubes. A lot of other people’s pubes.

The pubes come in a multitude of colours and lengths, the visible detritus of the humanity that passes through this city like a dose of avian flu.


The pubes move around the room from day to day, caught in the thin wind that blows through the broken window.




I really should start naming them. Then I could create imaginary characters to go with them. Then again, I don’t really want to imagine that much.


Some are curly, some are straight, some are red, some are black. Some of them might even be mine. The only common denominator is that they are still there at the end of every day, even after the cleaners have been in. In fact, the only days they seem to stay still are after the cleaners have been in.


The cleaners have an uncanny knack of making the pubes stay still.


When I complain, the people at Studio Studio tell me I should move somewhere else if I don’t like it. They say my standards are too high.


Maybe they are.


Then again, I didn’t ask for a room with a pube.