Yesterday I read David Lebovitz‘ blog about the indignity of being measured for socks and about buying bum scratcher jam. I love the way he writes and his photography is what we all aspire to. It’s no wonder he’s the top foodie blogger in the world. Not only does he write well, have fantastic photography but the recipes are top drawer. Where would my family be without his ice cream recipe??

His sock story reminded me of a similar incident that happened to me in Hong Kong a few years ago. We decided to take a trip to Hong Kong and get some clothes made for the hubby – not because we needed the clothes but because we thought it was a cool thing to do. I hadn’t planned on getting anything made but when we got there I was encouraged to look at the ladies suits on display.  Did I say encouraged?  Hong Kong salesmen do not encourage – they sell in a way that you cannot say no.

I found one that I liked and then another and then another and then had to select the fabric and then came the measuring. I’m short and I’m round. There is nothing they won’t measure and they don’t fret about touching any of the bits that are only used in private and it’s all done right inside the big glass windows of the shop!

We were asked to come back at 4pm to try on the muslin samples and that the suits would be ready to pick up the following day. The muslin samples fit perfectly and we were looking forward to trying the finished clothes on the the next day. The tailor was in the shopping center below the hotel so it wasn’t far to walk. Sort of like an elevator ride from our room to the store.

At the appointed time we returned to the store and our clothes were ready for the final fitting. I tried on the navy blue suit and it was perfect – ready to put in the suitcase.. nothing needed. Then I tried on the black and white houndstooth suit. The design I had selected had four pockets with little pocket flaps. My suit had only the lower pockets.

I looked at the tailor who spoke no English and the salesman and said in my best Chinese, “no pockets?” and pointed to my boobs. (that’s the best Chinese I can do)

The little tailor walked up to me (in the middle of the crowded shop, I might add) and said, “NO FLAP, NO FLAP” as he swept his hand across first on one breast and then another in a big flourish, and then said as loudly as I thought he was capable of, “NO FLAP, NO FLAP, TOO BIG, TOO BIG !!”  My husband sitting on the far side of the shop nearly choked on his laughter and I wished at that moment he would have.  Bastard.

Perhaps I neglected to mention that I’m rather well endowed and this little man figured I didn’t need any more attention to my love bubbles than they already got.

I couldn’t buy any bum scratcher jam like David Lebovitz can buy in Paris but yesterday I DID buy some Bum Hummer pickled onions – 1,000 farts per jar. Does that count?