The night was balmy and the neon lines of the Hong Kong horizon gleamed in the dark air. The busy square in front of the hotel was bursting with movement and noise, awash in the cheerful voices of young, carefree Hong Kong people shopping, drinking, flirting, and gossiping. My boss and work colleagues – a bunch of guys all around my age – early 30-s – urged me again to join them in a trip to the bars in the party district. Once more they heard my half-hearted excuses. Exasperated by my lack of zest – we had just managed to close a difficult deal, the evening was lovely, the city dazzling – they left without me, the trail of their excited voices still hanging in the air after they had disappeared through the glass doors.

Alone in the marble-clad foyer, slouched in the deep, claret-red armchair, I felt oddly warned out and jittery at the same time. My mind was heavy with disordered thoughts, my body tired. Work was good, I was fit and well, a man in his prime. Money weren’t tight, things were going smoothly. So why was I feeling fed up and gloomy like a wintry sky?

I ordered a cocktail. A young boy from the foyer bar brought it in a tall elegant glass on top of a small tray. The ice cubes glistened in the golden liquid. I held the glass with a sweaty palm and my thoughts flapped inside my head like fish in tank. I suddenly decided I could do with a massage in Hong Kong. Yes, my body missed a good, solid squeeze. A pair of skilled hands to knead the lumps of disappointment beneath my skin and make them melt away. A Hong Kong outcall massage was exactly what I needed now.