Getting Old

Yesterday I had a meeting with one of my best friends since secondary school, Wilson, whom had only recently returned from his four-year degree course in New Zealand. We met at Heartland Mall’s Xin Wang HK Cafe, a very decent place for relatively low-cost, almost restaurant-quality food, and the ambience was good (Wilson managed to grab a great corner seat) — helped also by the fact that there were almost always some attractive girls (none as attractive as my fiancée of course) seated around.

When we were ready to order our food, I called the waiter over and told the waiter what I wanted in mandarin. After the waiter had gone, Wilson looked at me with a most curious look. He then told me in quite surprised manner that my mandarin improved (I could tell he was asking himself, “what on Earth happened to the Chinese-cannot-make-it Donn!?”).

I had to explain to him that I had little choice in this matter, given that my fiancée was more Chinese than English. “I speak to her,” I added, “mostly in mandarin.”

It was at this statement that his mouth dropped open and he let out a gasp of astonishment. And it was only then that I, too, realised how much had changed since our school days, and I couldn’t help but laugh along with him.