It was 1994. I was 12-years-old and my parents were on the brink of divorce. Clearly, we needed a holiday, and the obvious destination was Hong Kong. For my mum, it had been years since she’d seen her Hong Kong-based family and her widowed mother, and she wanted to pay her respects to her late brother and father. For the kids, we saw an important opportunity to spend obscene wads of our father’s cash on pirated Nintendo games and to eat yum cha every day of the week. We all had our reasons for going.
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