From the South China Morning Post:
We all have a story. A foot run over by a suitcase. A flight delayed by an unrestrained child. A quiet night at the cinema or a nice restaurant thrown asunder by a tantrum. This is our warzone—remember, in this city, umbrellas are deadly weapons—and these our battle scars. We share our stories, we bond over them, the hurt they cause eased by the implication in every retelling that we are not like that. We are better.
My favorite story to tell is not my own. Last autumn, my girlfriend lined up for a minibus one evening in Admiralty. She was 14th in line for the 16 seats on the next bus when a young mainland Chinese man and his father rushed to cut in front of her. The father then counted heads and turned to my girlfriend.
“Lucky,” he said to her, in accented Cantonese. “You’re 16th!”