busker

The month was May and I almost immediately fell among thieves, joining a promising gang of chamber-of-commerce heavy-hitters for a festival highlight.

I remember feeling and looking somewhat out of place, with a wardrobe that was very much Hong Kong - bespoke glad rags from Harilela, neck-wear of impeccable pedigree, and footwear fit to pass muster with the fussiest head waiter or club secretary.

We met at some posh watering hole, performed breezy intros (during which I made a total prat of myself handing out business cards with due bowing) and moved on suitably oiled to enjoy the movie du choix.

All I remember is watching the titles come up and wondering what the heck I was doing there as my devoted family was huddled back home, trusting me to be beavering away on my job search. And you know what? I checked out more movies the next day. And the next.

In each case, I sat thru the first 20 mins and then left in shame and guilt, scurrying home to peck ineffectually at the laptop in a pathetic attempt to salve my conscience.

By the time the next year's Festival came round, the family was united in a bijou Bainbridge cottage and I was actually in a position to lavish my own expense account on powerful journos but I found myself unable even to check out the listings.

What I *will* particularly miss is those chatty Sunday morning queuings with my bright pal Eric as we waited for the Egyptian to open for the delightful *secret* film showings.

The ever-excellent Seattle Weekly SIFF supplement reads my plight perfectly, recommending unemployment to take in the cinematic cornucopia.

At first glance, my eye alights on:

2046 with the luminous Maggie Cheung Ho-yee

I even intend to check out some of the recommended watering holes, not least the Mirabeau Room in the hopes of re-freshing my friendship with
ArtDish supremo, the wonderful Jim Demetre.