*
homosexual n., adj. (person) sexually attracted to members of the same sex.
I meet you in the cinema. It is film called Fear Eats Soul, from German director Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Programme say Fassbinder is homosexual. What is it? I open little Collins English Dictionary-THE AUTHORITY ON CURRENT ENGLISH. It tells me what is Homosexual. Strange word, I cannot imagine it.
It is the Ciné-Lumière, near South Kensington. 7 o’clock Monday, raining. Not over ten people, half are old couple with white hair. Then there you are.
You are alone. You sit almost beside me. Two seats between us. Your face quite pale in the dim light, but beautiful. I too am alone in the cinema. I always alone in the cinema before I meet you. I am bit confused whether if cinema make me less lonely or even more lonely.
On the screen, old German woman dancing with young black man in a pub. All the peoples in pub watching. Old woman she has humble smile. She has hard life. Then I see your smile in the dark light. Why I can see your smile while I am watching the film? You turn your face and understand I am looking at you. You smile again, but very gentle, and very little. You look back the screen.
You have warm smile. Is like a baby’s smile. Nobody smile to me before like you in this cold country. In the darkness, I am thinking you must be kind man.
It is a film shows impossible love between old white woman and young black man. But nothing to do with “homosexual.”
After film, we walk to exit. Our bodies so close. Out from cinema, road lights finally light up our faces.
Then, with gentle smile, you ask me:
“Did you like the film?”
I nod head.
Is like the uncomfortable English weather have some sunshine suddenly.
You ask my name. I say name start from Z, “But please no worry to remember,” I say, “my name too long pronounce.” You tell me your name, but how I remember English name? Western name are un-rememberable, like all Western look the same. But I want remember you, want remember the difference you with others. I look at your face. Brown eyes, transparent. Thick brown hair, like colour of leafs in autumn. Your voice gentle, but solid. It sound safe.
We walk from South Kensington towards Hyde Park. A long way for feets. What we talk about? I tell you of famous English creamy tea. You say prefer French Patisserie.
“Patty surly?”
“No patisserie.”
“How spell?”
“P-a-t-i-s-s-e-r-i-e.” You speak slowly with slowly moving lips, like Mrs. Margaret.
“What is it?” I not bring dictionary tonight.
You stop in front very fashionable “French Patisserie” shop. Still open at late time. Beautiful cakes waiting inside window.
“Which one would you like?” You look at me.
I worried of price.
“I don’t know,” I say. How I know about these soft stuffs?
“Then I’ll choose one for you.”
You give me a piece of creamy thing.
“What is it?” I hold it on my hand carefully.
“C-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e e-c-l-a-i-r.”
“OK.”
I bite it, but immediately cream squeeze out, falling on street.
I look at white cream drop on dirty street.
You look at white cream drop on dirty street.
“Oh well, never mind,” you say.
So we talk, and talk, and talk, through Hyde Park, then to West End, then Islington, walk towards my place. Nearly four hours walking. My legs is so sore, and my throat so dry, but I enjoying it. Is first time a person walking beside me through chilly night. Is also first time a person being patience listen my nonsense English, and learning me bad language. You much better than Mrs. Margaret. She never let us talk freely.
When I arriving back, is already deep night.
In front of house, you kiss my two cheeks, and watch me go in door.
“Good meeting you,” you say.
Everything happen in very gentle way.
I want go immediately my room think about English man who smile and kiss me like lover, but I see Chinese landlord sitting on kitchen, watching TV and waiting for me. He is yawning. He worried my late back. At same time wife come down from upstairs bedroom in sleeping robe:
“We were so worried about you! We never come back as late as you do!”
Nervous voice remind me of my mother. My mother always talk to me like that.
I say I OK. Don’t worry.
Wife look at me seriously: “It is dangerous at night and also you are a young girl.”
I take off my guilty shoes.
“Next time if you are late, phone my husband and he can come and pick you up. This is England not China. Men easily get drunk in the pub!”
With last yawn, husband turn off TV. He look cross and tired.
I feel good after I close my bedroom’s door. My heart hold a secret to make me warm at night.
The leafs blow outside. The street lights shine on my window. I am thinking I am only person to be awake in the world. I am thinking of China, thinking of old German lady dancing, thinking of your smile. I fall to sleep with sweet feelings inside my body.
guest (gest) n. 1. person entertained at another’s house or at another’s expense; 2. invited performer or speaker; 3. customer at a hotel or restaurant.
A new day. You call me. At once I know your voice. You ask if I want visit Kew Gardens.
“ Queue Gardens?”
“Meet me at Richmond tube station,” you say. “R-i-c-h-m-on-d.”
Is beautiful weather. What a surprise. And so peaceful in the grassy space. So green. Cherry blossoms is just coming out and you tell me about your favourite snowdrops. We see there is different small gardens with different theme. Africa garden are palm trees. North America garden are rocks. South America garden are cactus. And there is too Asia gardens. I so happy Manager not forgetting Asia gardens.
But I so disappointing after we walk in. Lotuses and bamboos is growing in India garden, plum trees and stone bridge is growing in Japanese garden. Where is my Chinese garden?
“Doesn’t look like they’ve made a Chinese garden,” you say to me.
“But that very unfair,” I say in angry voice. “Bamboos belongs to China. Panda eats bamboos leafs in China, you must hear, no?”
You laugh. You say you agree. They should move some plants from India and Japan garden to make Chinese garden.
The meadow asking us to lie. We rest beside each other. I never do that with a man. Juice from grass wetting my white shirt. My heart melting. Sky is blue and airplane flying above us, low and clear. I see moving shadows of the plane on the meadow.
“I want see where you live,” I say.
You look in my eyes. “Be my guest.”
misunderstand v. fail to understand properly.
misunderstanding n. informal a disagreement, argument, or fight.
That’s how all start. From a misunderstanding. When you say “guest” I think you meaning I can stay in your house. A week later, I move out from Chinese landlord.
I not really have anything, only big wheel-missing suitcase. The husband helping me suitcase. The wife opening door. Your white van waiting outside, you with hands on wheel.
Husband puts wheel-missing suitcase on your van, you smile to landlord and turn engine key.
I want ask something to my landlord that I always wanting ask, so I put my head out of window:
“Why you not plant plants in your garden?”
Wife is hesitate: “Why? It is not easy to grow plants in this country. No sun.”
For last time I look the concrete garden. Is same no story, same way as before. Like little piece of Gobi desert. What a life! Or maybe all the immigrants here living like that?
White van starting up, I respond to wife:
“Not true. Everywhere green in this country. How you say not easy growing plant here?”
We leave house behind. The couple is waving hands to me.
I say: “Chinese strange sometimes.”
You smile: “I don’t understand you Chinese at all. But I would like to get to know you.”
We driving in high street. My suitcase lie down obediently at back. Is so easy move house like this in West? I happy I leave my grey and no fun Tottenham Hale, heading to a better area, I think. But streets becoming more and more rough. Lots of black kids shouting outside. Beggars sitting on corner with dogs, smoking, and murmuring.
“Where your house?” I ask.
“Hackney.”
“How is Hackney?”
“Hackney is Hackney,” you say.
bachelor n. 1. an unmarried man; 2. a person who holds the lowest university or college degree.
Your house is old house standing lonely between ugly new buildings for poor people. Front, it lemon yellow painted. Both side of house is bricks covered by mosses and jasmine leafs. Through leafs I see house very damp and damaged. Must have lots of stories happened inside this house.
And you are really bachelor. Your bed is single bed. Made by several piece of big wood, with wooden boxes underneath. Old bedding sheets cover it. Must be very hard for sleep, like Chinese peasants kang bed. In kitchen, teacups is everywhere. Every cup different with other, big or small, half new or broken…So everything single, no company, no partner, no pair.
First day I arrive, our conversation like this:
I say: “I eat. Do you eat?”
You correct me in proper way: “I want to eat. Would you like to eat something with me?”
You ask: “Would you like some coffee?”
I say: “I don’t want coffee. I want tea.”
You change it: “A cup of tea would be delightful.”
Then you laughing at my confusing face, and you change your saying: “I would love a cup of tea, please.”
I ask: “How you use word ‘love’ on tea?”
First time you make food for me it is some raw leafs with two boiled eggs. Eggy Salad. Is that all? Is that what English people offer in their homes? In China, cold food for guest is bad, only beggars no complain cold food. Maybe you don’t know how cook, because you are a bachelor.
I sit down on your kitchen table, eat silently. Lampshade is on top of my head, tap is dripping in sink. So quiet. Scarily. I never ate such a quiet food in China. Always with many of family members, everybody shouting and screaming while eating. Here only the noise is from me using the forks and knife. I drop the knife two times so I decide only use one fork in my right hand.
Chewing. Chewing. No conversation.
You look at me eating, patiently.
Finally you ask: “So, do you like the food?”
I nod, put another leaf into my mouth. I remember me is bad speak with food full of my mouth. You wait. But patience maybe running out, so you answer your question in my voice: “Yes, I like the food very much. It is delicious. It is yami.”
The memory becomes so uncertain.
The memory keeps a portrait about you. An abstract portrait like pictures I saw in Tate Modern, blur details and sketchy lines. I start to draw this picture, but my memory about you keeps changing, and I have to change the picture.
green fingers pl. n. Brit. informal skill in gardening.
Our first night. First time we make love. First time in my life doing this.
I think you are beautiful. You are beautiful smiles, and beautiful face, and beautiful language. You speak slowly. I almost hear every single word because you speak so slowly, only sometime I not understanding what you mean. But I understanding you more than anybody else I meet in England.
Then you are taking off clothes.
I look at you. Man’s body seems ugly. Hair, bones, muscles, skins, more hair. I smell at you. Strong smell. Smell animal. Smell is from your hair, your chest, your neck, your armpit, your skin, your every single little bit in body.
Strong smell and strong soul. I even can feel it and touch it. And I think your body maybe beautiful also. Is the home of your soul.
I ask how old are you, is first question Chinese people ask to stranger. You say forty-four. Older than me twenty years. Forty-four in my Chinese think is old, is really old. Leaves far behind away from youth. I say age sound old, but you look young. You say thanks, and you don’t say more.
I say I think you beautiful, ignoring the age. I think you too beautiful for me, and I don’t deserve of you.
Very early morning. You are sleeping, with gentle breathe. I look through bedroom’s window. Sky turning dim into bright. I see small dried up old grapes hang under vines by window. Their shapes are become clear and clear in cold spring morning light. Garden is messy and lush. Your clothes and socks hanging in washing line. Your gardening machines everywhere on soil.
You are man, handy and physical. This is man’s garden.
You make me feel fragile. Love makes me feel fragile, because I am not beautiful, I never being told I am beautiful. My mother always telling me I am ugly. “You are ugly peasant girl. You have to know this.” Mother tells this to me for all twenty-three years. Maybe why I not never having boyfriend like other Chinese girls my age. When I badly communicating with others, my mother’s words becomes loud in my eardrum. I am ugly peasant girl. I am ugly peasant girl.
“My body is crying for you,” you say.
Most beautiful sentence I heard in my life.
My bad English don’t match your beautiful language.
I think I fall in love with you, but my love cannot match your beauty.
And then daytime. Sun puts light through garden to our bed. Birds are singing on roof. I think how sunlight must make people much happier in this dark country and then I watch you wake up. We see each other naked, without distance. In light of reality. “Good morning,” you say. “You look even more lovely than yesterday.” And we make love again in the morning.
fertilise v. 1. to provide (an animal or plant) with sperm or pollen to bring about fertilisation; 2. to supply (soil) with nutrients.
You take me to garden. Is very small, maybe ten square metres. One by one, you introduce me all the plants you have put there. Sixteen different plants in a ten square metres garden. In my home town in China, there only one plant in fields: rice.
You know every single plant’s name, like they your family and you try tell me but I not remember English names so you write them down:
Potato
Daffodil
Lavender
Mint
Spinach
Thyme
Dill
Apple tree
Green beans
Wisteria
Grape vine
Bay tree
Geranium
Beetroot
Sweet corn
Fig tree
Then I tell you all these plants have very different names and meanings in Chinese. So I write down names in Chinese, and explain every word at you.
You laughing when you hear the names. “I never knew flutes grew on trees,” you say. It seems I am big comedy to you. I not understand why so funny. “You can’t say your Rs. It’s fruit not flute,” you explain me. “A flute is a musical instrument. But your Chinese name seems just right: a fig tree really is a fruit tree without flowers.”
“How a tree can just have fruit without having flower first?” I ask.
Like teacher, you describe how insect climbs into fruit to fertilise seed.
What “fertilise”? I need looking in Concise Chinese-English Dictionary.
“Fertilise” make me think Chairman Mao. He likes fertiliser. Was big Mao thing increase productivity, increase plants. Maybe that why China, biggest peasants population country, still alive and become stronger after using fertiliser on the soil.
I ask: “How long a fig tree has figs after insects fertilising it? Like woman have ten months pregnant?”
You look at me, like look at alien.
“Why ten months? I thought it took nine months,” you say.
“Chinese we say shi yue huai tai
.
It means giving the birth after ten months pregnant.”
“That’s strange.” You seem like want to laugh again. “Which day do you start to count the pregnancy in China?” you ask seriously. But how I know? We never being taught this properly in school. Too shameful to teach and to study for our Chinese.
Standing under your fruit tree without flowers, I pick up piece of leaf, and put on my palm. A single leaf, but large. I touch the surface and feel hairy.
“Have you read the Bible?” you ask.
“No.” Of course not, not in China.
You fetch a big huge black book from room. You open the pages. “Actually the fig tree is the oldest of mankind’s symbols.” You point at beginning of book:
And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked, and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.
“What is that?” I am curious.
“It is about Adam and Eve. They used fig leaves to cover their naked bodies.”
“They clever. They knowing fig leaves bigger than other leafs,” I say.
You laugh again.
Your gardening machines everywhere in disorder.
Suddenly I bit shocked, stop. There are some nudity in your garden.
“What this?” I ask.
“Those are my sculptures,” you say.
Sculptures? A naked man no head, facing to ground of the garden. Body twisted, with enormous hands and enormous feet. Close to ground, between the legs, two beautiful eggs, like two half of apples. In the middle of apples, a penis like little wounded bird. I walk to him and touch. Is made of plaster. I amazed by this body, is huge, looks suffered. I remember picture from Michelangelo’s David on your bookshelf, a very healthy and balanced body. But yours, yours far different.
Beside this body statue, some other smalls clay sculptures. Ear, big like basin, in brown. Shape of that ear spread like a big flower. Then more ears, different shape, different size. They lie on the grass quietly, listening us.
Under fig tree another penis made from clay, gentle, innocent. Then another one, looks harder, lies down beside honeysuckle roots, in soil colour. Little clay sculptures there, like they live with plants hundred years.
The noisy London being stopped by brick wall. The grey city kept away by this garden. Plants and sculptures on sunshine. Glamorous, like you. Maybe all mans in London green fingers. Maybe this country too cold and too dim, so plants and garden can showing imagination the spring, the sun, the warmth. And plants and garden giving love like womans warm mans life.
When I stand in garden with sixteen different plants, I think of Chinese mans. Chinese city-mans not plant-lover at all. Shameful for Chinese city-mans pour passion onto those leafs. He be considered a loser, no position in society. But you, you different. Who are you?
instruction n. 1. order to do something; 2. teaching-pl. information on how to do or use something.
We have so much sex. We make love every day and every night. Morning, noon, afternoon, late afternoon, evening, early night, late night, midnight, even in the dreams. We make love in sun, we make love in grey afternoon, and we make love at raining night. We make love on narrow bench of garden, under fig tree, on hammock covered by the grape leafs, by kitchen sink, on dinner table, on anywhere we feel like to make love. I feel scared towards your huge energy. You come into me strong like a storm blowing a wooden house in the forest, and you come into me deep like a hammer beating the nail on the wall. You ask me if it feels good, and I say it make me feel comfortable.
“Only comfortable!?”
“Yes,” I tell you. “I find your body is very comfortable, like nothing else I find in this uncomfortable country.”
Do I feel shame about sex? Yes, I do, in beginning. A lot. Is such taboo in China. I never really know what is sex before. Now I naked everyday in the house, and I can see clearly my desire. Recent I dream few times that I am naked in street, in market, and even on highway. I run through busy street fast as I can to get home. But still, everybody in street surprising to see I am naked.
What this dream about?
You say this dream about shame or fear of being exposed.
Every time we make love you produce so much sperm on my skin like the spring on the Trafalgar Square, you are worried sometimes that maybe I get pregnant. We only want have each other and we don’t want let the third person take over our love.
You say we need use the condom.
In our long-shabby-Hackney-Road, there no any “Boots” (Boots is a shop represent civilisation to me), although Cost Cutter sells condom sometimes. But shopkeeper in Cost Cutter know us just like he know niece or nephew. And he is serious Muslim, he might anti condom user. So we have go to Brick Lane, where the Bangladeshi shopkeepers are kind and messy, and they can’t remembering every single customer face whom from Hackney Road.
PLEASE READ THESE INSTRUCTIONS CAREFULLY, as it say on the box. I open box, unfold notes, then start read. I never read condom instruction before. I think people maybe only read condom instruction when the first time they try to sex. Anyway I new to this.
Tear along one side of the foil, removing the condom carefully. Condoms are strong but can be torn by sharp fingernails or jewellery.
“What is jewellery?” I ask.
“Sparkly stuff women love to wear,” you say, without emotion.
Only put the condom on when the penis is erect and before contact with your partner’s body. This helps prevent STDs and pregnancy.
“What is STD?”
“Sexually Transmitted Disease,” you reply quickly, as if is thing you are familiar as your every day’s mint tea.
Now place the condom over the end of the penis with the roll on the outside. With one hand pinch the teat of the condom to expel any trapped air, this will make space for the sperm.
I being stopped by these word:
one hand pinch the teat of the condom to expel any trapped air
…I needing several seconds to imagine that scene. Is like pornography. We cannot have words like this in Chinese. We too ashamed. Westerner has nothing too ashamed. You can do anything in this country.
Using the other hand, roll the condom down the length of the penis to its base. Withdraw the penis soon after ejaculation whilst still erect, holding the condom firmly in place at the base of the penis. Wait until the penis is completely withdrawn before removing the condom. Keep the penis and condom away from the vagina to avoid any contact with sperm…
I can’t continuing reading. I am totally lost these words. But you laughing.
Condoms are intended for vaginal intercourse, other uses can increase the potential for breakage.
I stop: “What’s that mean?”
“It is a hint. It means you shouldn’t put it into the arse.” You answer, very precise, but no more patience, as you start reading your Guardian Weekend.
I read other bits of instruction on other side as well, and they less important. For example,
Even if you are not planning on having sexual intercourse, it’s sensible to carry condoms with you, just in case.
Sensible to carry condoms all the time? Westerner can always have sex whenever they go shopping, or waiting for bus or train. Sex in this country is like brush the hair or the teeth.
Words on the instruction are more exciting than sexy magazines on shelfs of corner shop in our street.
charm n. 1. attractive quality; 2. trinket worn on a bracelet; 3. magic spell-v. 1. attract, delight; 2. influence by personal charm; 3. protect or influence as if by magic.
From first day we being together, until next two and three days, our skins being non stop together, not separating even a hour. You talk to me about everything. But I not understand completely. You say:
“I used to try to love men. For most of the last twenty years I have been out with men.”
I think is good try love men. World better place. But go out where?
“When I was a squatter, I made a lot of sculptures. They’d fill the houses.”
What squat? I take out dictionary. Says “to sit with the knees bent and the heels close to the bottom or thighs.” Very difficult position, I imagine.
What kind houses you squatted there? Don’t lonely sit with the knees bent without chair on the floor?
“I used to plant potatoes and beans on a farm, and I looked after my goats. I loved doing that, more than anything else.”
So you a peasant? How come you also such a city man?
“I love old things. I love second-hand things. I hate new things. I don’t want to buy new things any more.”
But old things rotten, dying. How you feel alively and active with daily life if only live with old things?
Every sentence you said, I put into my own dictionary. Next day I look at and think every single word. I am entering into your brain. Although my world so far away from your, I think I be able understand you. I think you absolutely charming. Thing around you fascinating.
I feel a concentrate of love for you, farmer, sculptor, lover of men, stranger. Noble man.
In China we say hundreds of reincarnations bring two peoples to same boat. Maybe you are that people for me to be same boat. I never met mans like you before. I think we perfect: You quite Yin, and I very Yang. You earthy, and I metal. You bit damp, and I a little dry. You cool, and I hot. You windy, and I firey. We join. There is mutualism. And we can benefit each other. And all these makes us efficient lover.
vegetarian n. a person who eats no meat or fish for moral, religious, or health reasons-adj. suitable for a vegetarian.
One problem between us and that is food.
Chop Chop, local Chinese restaurant in Hackney. I make you go there even though you say you never go Chinese restaurants.
Restaurant has very plain looking. White plastic table and plastic chairs and white fluorescent lamp. Just like normal government work unit in China. Waiter unhappy when cleans table, not looking anybody. Woman with pony tails behind counter she even more mean. A plastic panda-savings-tin sitting on top of counter. None of them can speak Mandarin.
“No. Sit there. No, no, not this table. Sit at that table.”
Waiter commands like we is his soldiers.
“What you want?…We don’t have tap water, you have to order something from the menu…We don’t do pots of green tea, only cups.”
I hate them. I swear I never been so rude Chinese restaurant in my entirely life. Why Chinese people becoming so mean in the West? I feel bit guilty for horrible service. Because I bring you, and you maybe thinking my culture just like this. Maybe that why some English look down of our Chinese. I am shameful for being a Chinese here.
But we still have to eat. Especially me, starving like the Ghost of Hunger. I always hungry. Even after big meal, later by one or two hours I feel hungry again. My family always very poor until several years ago. We used eat very small, barely had meat. After my parents started shoes factory, and left the poor peasants background behind, changed. But still I think foods all the time.
You not know nothing about Chinese food so I quickly order: duck, pork, fried tofu with beefs.
Meal comes to table, and I digging fastly my chopsticks into dishes like having a snowstorm. But you don’t have any action at all. You just look me, like looking a Beijing opera.
“Why you not eat?” I ask, busy chewing my pork in my mouth.
“I am not very hungry,” you say.
“You use chopsticks?” I think maybe that’s the reason.
“Yes. Don’t worry.” You raise your chopsticks and perform to me.
“But you waste the food. Not like Chinese food?”
“I am a vegetarian,” you say picking up little bit rice. “This menu is a zoo.”
I am surprised. I try find my dictionary. Damn, is not with me this time. I remember film English Patient I watch on pirate DVD in China to education me about British people. “What that word? Word describe a people fall asleep for long long time, like living dying?”
“You mean coma?” You are confused.
“Yes, that is the word! You are not like that, do you?”
You put chopsticks down. Maybe you angry now.
“I presume you are thinking of the persistent vegetative state,” you say. “Vegetarian means you don’t eat meat.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” I say, swallowing big mouthful tofus and beefs.
Now I understand why never buy piece of meat. I thought it is because you poor.
“Why don’t eat meat? Meat very nutritious.”
“…” You have no comments.
“Also you be depression if you don’t eating meat.”
“…” You still have no comments.
“My parents beaten me if I don’t eating meat or any food on table in a meal. My parents curse me being picky and spoiled. Because others dying without any food to eat.”
“…” Still don’t say anything.
“How come man is vegetarian? Unless he is monk,” I say.
Still no words from you, but laughing.
You watch me eating all of meal. I try finish the duck, and the tofu and the beefs. My stomach painful. There are still porks left, and I order to take them away.
While I eating, you write top ten favorite food on a napkin:
avocado
asparagus
lentils
spinach
lettuce
pumpkin
radish
broccoli
aubergine
carrot
But, is this list will be the menu in our kitchen for rest of life? Is terrible! What about my meatball, my mutton, my beefs in black bean sauce? Who will be in charge of kitchen?
noble adj. showing or having high moral qualities; of the nobility; impressive and magnificent.
Sunday. I want do shopping. I say we need buy some toilet paper, some candle, some garlic, some ginger, some greens. (I not say meat, but actually that what I want buy after eating vegetables with you every day.)
“I want go to Sainsbury.” After saying that, I realising I need practise my English manner, so I ask you again: “Shall we go to Sainsbury?”
You not look happy.
“Hmm, right. Let’s worship in Sainsbury’s every Sunday.”
“What worship?”
“Worship? It’s how the Chinese feel about Mao.”
I don’t know what say. Don’t you know now we worship America?
“I don’t like Sainsbury’s,” you say. “I like the rubbish market. They have much more interesting things there.”
“Which rubbish market?”
You take me to the Brick Lane market. Is really a rubbish market. All kind of second-hand or third-hand radios, old CDs, used furniture, broken television set (who want buy a broken TV set?), old bicycles, tyres, nails, drilling machines, dusty shoes, pirate DVDs, cheap biscakes…I wonder if all these things made in China.
You walk in the rubbish market with your old brown leather jacket and your dirty old leather shoes. The jacket is so old that the sleeves are wore out and the bottom is pieces. But you look great with these rubbish costumes in the rubbish market.
I think you are a noble man with noble words. I am not noble. I am humble. And I speak humble English. I from poor town in south China. We never see noble.