Dear Mr Man at the Station

Dear man at the station,

Sitting behind the x-ray machine. Yes, you who reads the contents of my working life nearly every day. I liked how you laughed today and wobbled, pretending to be drunk when you saw on your screen that yet again I was trafficking wine. You balanced the shudder of annoyance that had grasped my nerves when your colleague, having seen and ignored that I had already removed my bag ready for the machine, still ordered me to place it on the belt. Dear Mr. Man at the Station, why do they do that? You see, the guards wave their arms at the machine and tell you to put your bag on the belt even when you are actually swinging. Is it a fact that if you do it without having been told to, they are unfulfilled in their roles? Perhaps the sense of satisfaction in their task would be diminished if they hadn’t actually told someone to do it. Still, sir, it irks to be told to do something that I am already doing; a pointless order; an assertion of authority perhaps; a point exaggerated by the fact that I attempt good behaviour when most others simply ignore. You, Mr. Man at the Station, I had assumed were about to challenge me over the wine until that cheeky smile appeared and you glugged at an imaginary vessel. Thank you for realigning my temper today.

But you, Mr. Hawking-nose-picking-finger-flicking man. You deserve no such thanks. Unless of course I thank you for not hitting me with whatever discovery you made up the dark passages of your nostrils. You, Mr. Hawking-nose-picking-finger-flicking man, made my stomach lurch and my throat gag – you I will not miss.

And you, Mr. I’m-only-pretending-to-be-asleep, just try to get past me: I will one day. Before I leave I will execute the perfect sneak; I may organise a cunning ruse, a diversion tactic then creep past on tiptoes like Tom about to pounce on his mouse and I shall absorb the grandeur of the building you so earnestly and successful watch over. The vines snaking around the aged concrete pillars; the balcony, dark, cracked and heavy; the tall imposing windows, all of these I shall feast upon and as I hide behind the grand oak that sits in the gardens. I shall pretend I am standing at the balcony edge, a glass of champagne in one hand, a cigarette holder in the other, my long gloves satin elegant, my head tipped back as I bestow a generous laugh at the amusing suave dinner jacketed gentleman before me. Yes, Mr. I’m-only-pretending-to-be-asleep, just try to get past me, I will one day breach the force field avoid the sonar and trick the senses – I will.

Dear Mrs. Mad Cat Lady. So far I have only written to strangers yet I have much to say to you. At first, an apology. I am sorry that I never spent the time sitting with you, the other Gao’an ladies and Mr. Long-Johns just watching the world go by. You never run out of things to say, which I think, if I’m honest, is why Ben isn’t that keen. And, whenever you see me, you are glad or at least acknowledge me – a kindly ayi watching her charge head off to work. Thank you for telling me off when I went for a run and the pollution really was too high. Thank you for covering the seat of my bike with a shower cap when I went away. Thank you for turning up at my door with crispy Chinese pancakes when I had a disgusting hangover, no food, and little will to move the other day. For the jokes about our neighbours; for telling me to get a husband when I gave you oranges; for wielding your phrase book hopefully even when I am running away from you. For your cart containing the insoles you sell; for the image of you at your Singer, sewing beneath a lamp in the dark. For the hats, the pomegranates, the welcomes, the care… thank you.

Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! To the people that walk with their eyes attached to their phones. To the cyclists and the pedestrians who launch into the road without looking: raaaaaaaaah! And to the woman who walked out of the shop wearing stiletto heels which promptly found a place between the tendons of my foot – just a cursory glance back would have helped, it really would.

To the man who is at least 80 that can crouch bent knees, arse-to-heel, for ages. I salute your strength and flexibility in the same way that I salute the woman who walks backwards down a busy road to reverse bad luck; or the old lady who can raise her leg to the railings and bend toward her knees, straight-backed in the middle of a park. To the small group who stroll chatting, slapping various joints to increase circulation and to the lungers, striders, slipper shufflers and park dancers – you are inspiring.

To the Avocado Lady. Thank you for knocking the odd RMB off my bill and for stuffing a free bulb of garlic in my shopping bag. For the no-nonsense, efficient yet kindly and really very impressive selection of imported good stocked within a hole-in the-wall shop. Mrs. Avocado Lady, I applaud you.

To the man who rides the bike loaded with polystyrene tubs that create an igloo eight times the size of your vehicle – how the bloody hell you do that?

To you Mrs. I-will-not-be-moved, despite living in a shack amongst rubble, you are strong, resourceful and stalwart. Your resilience and determination in the face of Progress I admire and respect. While your washing hangs above rubbish and your bathroom is the ground; when the dandelions you pick for tea are scant, they are sourced, dried and used. While the ocean of rubble that surrounds your crumbling home reveals patches of what was once a bathroom floor, a bedroom, a home provides me and my treasure seeking companion with surprises, history and exhibition fodder, you live within it. You will not be moved. I hope this lasts, Mrs. I-will-not-be-moved, or you are at least looked after when the Mr. Progress comes to build his big glass buildings. I really do.

There are more, of course, Mr. Man at the Station. More memories and people from Shanghai that I will miss, not miss, admire, respect and laugh with but just for today, they are the ones that sprang to mind when I wrote to you. I hope you sleep well after you stint at the station today, no doubt that I’ll see you again when I return to work on Thursday. Just to give you the heads-up, there are two more bottles of wine I will be bringing home with me then. I know, I know but it makes you laugh, at least. Thanks for resetting the balance today.