I've had the longest bout of jet-lag I've ever experienced and it's still not flushed out properly a week after or so after I got back from Hong Kong.

I point the finger at the time difference and the unexpected strain of having to fly to Scotland almost as soon as I got into the office on my first day back, but I'd like to think it's to do with the tenacity of the grip that Hong Kong still has on me. It simply won't let go and I don't want it to.

This Far Eastern city state stormed all my defences the moment I stepped out of the plane that brought me there. Take me again. Over-run me. No walls left to batter down. I love the place.

It's an intoxicant for all the senses: enormous statement skyscrapers stand cheek by jowl with broad sweeps of lush forest and stern, jagged peaks and crinkling mountain ridges.

Like so many Asian cities I've been to, Hong Kong has that earthy aroma of fertility, things are going to happen and quickly: throw a seed on the ground, it'll bloom; a single brick becomes a skyscraper overnight; an idea thrown into the heads of these natural born entrepreneurs and it's a new business the same day.

Hong Kong is for cliff dwellers. The only way is up. It has to be. Hong Kong's typography mandates nothing else but. So for millions it's an aerial life in the honeycomb of a giant apartment block and if you're lucky a view to die for and if you're not, then a view of someone's laundry fluttering on those metal hangers which all these cliff dwellers hang their washing on.