Afunny thing happened to me the other day on the way to a bar in Wan Chai.
A noisy trio of Thai lady boys - looking fabulous in their miniskirts and stiletto heels - had just piled out of a taxi and were hustling for customers on Jaffe Road.
It had stopped raining only moments earlier and the street creatures that inhabit Hong Kong's sleaziest neighbourhood on a Friday night were emerging.
I was only half paying attention to where I was walking, when I looked up. There, before me on the street corner, stood a lone figure, bathed in Wan Chai's seductive neon light.
Maybe it was the intoxicating perfume wafting off the lady boys causing me to hallucinate, but I could have sworn it was Donald Tsang Yam-kuen standing there.
I rubbed my eyes, took a deep breath and looked again. Dark suit. No-nonsense haircut. China-Hong Kong pin in his lapel. A bow tie. It was him all right.