I LAUGHED when I was half carried, half shoved into the MTR the other day. I laughed when the man next to me stood on tip toe and tried to look down my turtleneck.
I laughed when I got pushed off the pavement in Nathan Road and I laughed when the saleswoman in the electronics shop refused to let me see a Walkman until I promised to buy it.
Was I going mad? No, I was experiencing the ''no problem'' euphoria associated with those expatriates who are on their way home for a visit. Nothing could bother me.
I knew that in a week, I would be in my old bedroom surrounded by my old Garfields and John Travolta posters, my Snoopy sheets, Miss Kumquat trophy, Dr Seuss books and a packet of Nutter Butter Peanut Butter cookies I left under the bed a year ago.
I had visions of spending my holiday lying on the family room couch with a choice of 48 cable television channels in front of me. My parents would leave me alone with the remote control, only interrupting every once in a while to feed and water their daughter, the couch potato.
Reality shattered my adolescent dreams when I called my mother to tell her my flight details.