So yesterday, I had my second violin lesson with Mr. Chung.

Ding dong

“Hi, Mr. Chung. Sorry I’m a bit late.” Me.

“It’s okay.” Chung said, then pointed at a woman sat using the computer. “She’s my sister.”

“Hello!” Me.

The woman looked at me for one second, then turned back to the computer screen.

“Some people.” I said under my breath.

“What?” Chung.

“Oh nothing. Just saying it’s boiling hot today.”

Then we started the lesson. No wait, before we started the lesson, Chung showed me an old violin.

“Have you ever seen violins like this one?” Chung.

“Not really, no.” Me.

“They’re ancient. More than 100 years old. My friend just brought this over from [some place].” Chung passed me the violin.

“It’s very light.” Me.

“Do the violin teachers in England use this sort of violins too?” Chung.

“I’m not sure. I didn’t notice.” Me.

“It’s about 100 to 150 years old. It’s very expensive. Old violins like this one can cost up to $100,000 (Hong Kong Dollars). Some even $200,000.”

“Wow.” (Note: a full-stop, not exclamation mark).

“Are ancient violins common in the UK?” Chung.

“I don’t know. I’ve only had one violin teacher there.” Me.

“They’re really expensive, but you could tell why it is that way. They’re just different. They have been passed on from ages ago, and on, and on…”

(Sidetrack:)
Have you totally lost the point of the story? Do you still remember why I was at Chung’s place?

(Back to the story:)
“So how’s the practice going? Could you play them?” Chung.

“It was okay.” Me, plucking the perfectly tuned violin.

“Let me tune it.” Chung.

Surprisingly after all that, Chung gave me a full one-hour lesson (and an extra few minutes?). He’s no doubt a decent violinist, but I wouldn’t comment on his ability to teach…

After the lesson on my way back home, a guy stopped me on the street.

“Hi, miss. Would you like to register for a free line?”

“Erm, no thanks.” About to walk away.

“Please, miss. Pleeeeaaase!”

“Sorry, but I don’t need one.” About to walk away again.

“Oh please! It’s free, and it’s this and that and that.” He begged me, waving the promotion leaflet in my face.

After asking him a thousand times if it was indeed free and no hidden cost or anything, I agreed to sign and register.

I wrote my name in English.

“You just came back from a foreign country, didn’t you?” Him.

“Yes.”

“Are you going back after the summer then?” Him.

“Depends if any universities want me here. If not, possibly.” Me.

“Wow, university.”

I smiled and nodded, then wrote my date of birth.

“You’re so young! You’re 5 years younger than me!!” He exclaimed.

I faked a smile and filled in my home address.

“Oh, so that’s where you live!”

I felt rather uneasy and wrote faster.

“Do you use the Internet?” He asked.

“…” I stopped writing and looked up. What’s using the Internet to do with a phone line register? “Yes…?”

“What sites do you go onto? What chatroom do you use?”

“Sorry, I don’t go online often, and I don’t chat.” A lie.

“Oh…” He sounded disappointed.

I completed the form, and asked him yet again if it was absolutely free, and what I could do if I receive a bill.

“Don’t worry, call me if you have problems.” He said.

I watched as he scribbled a few phone numbers. 9XXXXXXX.

“It’s a mobile number.” I pointed out.

“Yes,” he said as he peeled the carbon copy off and handed it to me. “Call me if you have any doubt. It’s my number.”

…

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