Now he's done putting out fires in California, please let Arnold Schwarzenegger NOT return to an eighth Terminator film called 'T-8'. I loved the whole "I'll be back" thing as much as the next sucker, but truly, please don't come back. Anymore. Plus, a T-8 movie would mean seven before it, and we've got enough Rockys, Die Hards and Indiana Joneses to take us well into the next century. (Retract comment about Indiana Jones: the man has a whip and a hat, which qualifies him as an eternal babe.)
Luckily for me, in these parts, a T-8 translates to a 'typhoon warning signal #8', which is what's going down on China's chin today.
Typhoon Nesat is its name, and it isn't hitting us directly (because that would be just rude), but instead, is squeezing past us somewhere to the southwest, carrying in its knapsack gale-force winds that have already reached local speeds of 115 km per hour. I'm not a wind expert (or expert in anything, really) but apparently that's really friggin' fast.
While a T-8 is a serious panic for those living in beachfront mud huts, it's admittedly a bit of a party for most city folk who get an automatic day off work. Oh, except for my precious B, because he works in media where the show must go on - rain, hail or hurricane. The media's answer to a tyhoon 8? Pffffft. My pen is mightier than your winds, NESAT. What kind of name is Nesat, anyway? *Repeat pfffft*.
To follow T-8 warning signal instructions, I'm meant to lock all windows and doors, and insert reinforced shutters and gates if I have them (I don't.) I'm also urged to not stand near any windows, and move all furniture and valuable objects away from them. Of course, taking a dip at the local beach is advised only for those who are sick of living. Public transport also shuts down, and if I were to make an afternoon coffee I'd planned with a friend today, I'd have to bribe a maniac cab driver to take me there.
But in reality, I'm with the media: Pfffft. All I can hear is the soft patter of rain on the window panes, because we're low to the ground and protected on all sides. There is a serious lack of typhoon action here unlike our last apartment on the 28th floor, where during one particularly bad-ass typhoon, B and I couldn't sleep because the barking winds kept getting in the way.
So, wishing Nesat a safe journey to nowhereland. You leave those mud hut folk alone, 'ya hear, or you'll have to deal with me and my (insert scary weapon device thingy.)