Close Call

Last night, walking along Cameron Road with a friend after dinner, just as we were about to pass by Cameron Plaza, came a huge CLANG. The next thing we know, a block of cement the size of a 28" CRT TV bounced off the metal edge of a two-feet-deep glass hood over our heads less than two meters in front of us and broke into thousands of cement chunks on the road. After the initial shock I pulled my friend into the closest shop, fearing that the next thing to fall would shatter the glass hood and make corkboards out of us.

Spectators from across the street wowed and pointed. Cars kept driving by, drivers unaware that the crackling noises they were making was from pieces of debris larger than enough to scrape against and puncture the bottom of their vehicles. As I felt my heart raise and blood pressure skyrocket, I realized how close I was to death. Me, at only two months from my second scary age, could've gamed-over last night.

Looking on the bright side, if we had been walking at just a slightly quicker pace, my friend and I would've died within seconds apart and lying side-by-side. At least I would've had someone to share this once-in-a-lifetime Kodak moment with. And we wouldn't have suffered much, except from the embarrassment of lying in the middle of TST on a Friday night without proper makeup on.

It could've been much worse. If the two guys walking about 2m ahead of us hadn't escaped in time, we would've had to witness their tragic deaths and never be able to eat ground meat again.

Up to now, I'm still traumatized by the ordeal. I'm almost sure this was a sign from God, but as with signs from any other man, I'm not quite sure what the Big Guy's trying to tell me.

Life is fragile. Life in Hong Kong needs a new word.