'He jabs at race ten, number six, number 13. "Ver' good!" he barks'

A big, busy day is beginning. On one side of Spring Garden Lane the shutters are coming up on Hoi Kee Stationery, while the shop selling red and gold Chinese lanterns has been open for some time, although trade is very slow. Perhaps everyone in Wan Chai already has a Chinese lantern.

The district of Wan Chai, in the hazy heart of Hong Kong island, is notorious for its nocturnal licentiousness, a red-lit riot of cheap thrills and only slightly pricier women. Sunday mornings are different; the locals are shopping, forming an orderly line out of the door and down the street as they queue for breakfast at Kam Fung cafe, a sausage bun for nine dollars, less than a pound, although there's a lot more bun than sausage. Story of my life, that.

In the small and quiet garden that gives Spring Garden Lane its name a man sits on a bench with a newspaper, nose glued to the racing pages, making incomprehensible annotations in the margins like any punter, everywhere. There are ten races at Sha Tin to consider, four of them the final flourish of the international Flat season, and form study is key. Five minutes later he stands up, tames his voluminous broadsheet down to pocket size and ambles across the road to the betting shop.