There was an evening when even
the children were allowed to stay up and play at the roof top.
The big event was ice-cream making!
I have no idea how it came by,
but someone might have lent us an ice-cream churner. The two porters from the airport seemed to be
in charge of the process. They were busy
loading ice and filling the churner with some cream mixture. We knew them as Uncle Bridge and Uncle Ocean,
a direct translation from the meaning of their Chinese names instead of by
sound. I was looking forward to our
first home-made ice-cream, but it was not to be. The ice-cream mixture was far
from freezing, not even thickening. My
younger sister was the first to fall asleep and then our neighbour’s daughter
and son. I struggled to stay awake for the ICE-CREAM.
In the end I was given some of
the sweet milky drink and then taken downstairs to bed.
We never had a chance to try that
churner again. Not many days after that,
we were on the DC3 fleeing to Hong Kong, to be followed later by
father.
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