“You can say what you like about these
protests,” my wife remarked breezily, between sips of Gordon’s on her chaise longue in our expat housing complex, Ivory Towers. “But at least it gets youngsters off their mobile phones and gives them a bit of exercise for a change.”
Affronted by her crass colonial-era insensitivity, I lectured her sternly for several minutes about the evils of the
now-abandoned extradition bill and the erosion of basic freedoms in Hong Kong as I topped up her pint glass. But on reflection, I had to admit she had a point.