She went to Shanghai

Integrity Bloom and where it came from.

Thank you for opting for the meatier version. Grab a cuppa/glass of wine and have a self imposed Kitkat moment to read below. I hope you’ll find it telling.

It’s a personal thing really. The change. This intentional autonomy, this self imposed potentially disastrous financial & career enhancing adventure. Yet it remains something I must do. It’s the next chapter in my story.

I’ve never found change difficult, as many of you subjected to my tall tales will have gathered. Moving country, adapting career, challenging my boundaries, creating ridiculously long winded and grammatically-incorrect-for-effect sentences. In fact I seek it. To add colour, depth, texture to my story. Although I feel it necessary here to assure you, I can also write a short, sharp, to the point email better than most.

Mrs Maskel popped into my head this morning. Mrs Maskel, a fond, vivid memory as she folded a 20 pence piece in my hand after I’d soaked her in the front wash sink when I was a 15 year old Saturday girl at Linroy’s Hairdressers back in the 90s. Her spine wouldn’t allow her to lean backwards like most clients and I wasn’t great with the front wash. The flannel she held to her forehead sopping as her gown and cardigan were when she eventually staggered up. Yet this notoriously precise lady taught me humility. With 20p and the way her eyes thanked and forgave me as she closed my hand around it.

And my reconsidered option of the men that queued outside JJ Moons, Ruislip, after church on a Sunday meant that I had to admit that as an 18 year old, I did not know everything. That we are always learning. And so we should. Far from the ‘sad old men’ I had horridly judged them as, they all had their own stories. A special tankard, an appreciation for a wife at home preparing the dinner in peace; a ‘have one yourself’ encouraged with a shaky ridged & creased hand. A lingering look through watery once vivid blue eyes that tell a story painful and joyful all at once if you can hold the gaze. Arrogance melted with them into vague understanding.

A girl whose grades have slipped at A-Level has been flagged as a concern and I am asked what I am doing wrong as her English Teacher. Not knowing how close they had come to a violent end, that particular deputy head was informed that the student in question was about to undergo life changing surgery and their parents were getting divorced. I knew this because I cared to ask. Not judge both a teacher and a student by a blip in a graph. What did I learn then? Not only that I can impose self control, a skill that has come in handy since, but also that it’s the meat and bones that count, the very marrow and knowing, giving time to people, connecting. Not deciding a personality based on a handbag and fancy shoes or assuming knowledge and fault solely on a graph & data. It’s the observation of an expression that leads to a conversation that makes you understand and able to help and help effectively. A sloppy sentence but read it slowly. There’s something in it.

And this shall be my Strategic Marketing Approach – the one and only time I will use those words – to understand both my clients and myself. Because that’s the point, right? Understanding the story. Having the confidence to understand my own story, the lessons learned as a barmaid (a very good one, might I add), a Saturday girl at the hairdressers. A seemingly powerless teenage paper round girl who stole giant cola bottles to balance being underpaid by a treacherous shopkeeper. Or realising during a conversation with a student who excelled in everything but English Literature that his understanding of Jazz and ability to play it could help him to interpret what he felt was fractious unintelligible Shakespearean language. Our conversation about jazz, about language, about modern art brought clarity and synchronicity to each subject for both of us and remains one of my favourite reflective conversations.

And while these titbits (of which there are many more) may seem irrelevant, they are not. They are key. They are most recently adorned with the experience and growth I have acquired at Eventful. Eventful have their own story, one of elegance, patience, quiet yet profound expertise. And oh how I’ve grown within that brilliant company! My branches have truly flourished yet without cutting the head off the rose how does it grow next year? That is not to say the rose is dead. Gosh no. Eventful is thriving but I am at a stage where I feel I’m ready to branch out and they, generous, fair and grateful, have supported me in doing so. To consolidate, at 46 years old, every experience, every lesson and reach out into the rich foundational earth to create new depth to my story and autonomy in growth is the aim.

My clients, I will understand their stories and bring them exceptional experiences. While the writing, the wellness, the retreats I have and will continue to execute remain a story for another day and a separate door to walk through on my simple, no flying banners and easily navigable website… which will be ready soon.

If you’ve made it this far, perhaps you are a potential new client or industry friend then thank you. You have an understanding of where I am coming from. I assure you I no longer steal (except the odd dental kit at a hotel – they’re very handy for visitors and strictly speaking ‘part of the deal’). I am diligent, efficient, and detail driven event professional despite talk of roses, jazz and cola bottles, whose experience is as enhanced by the Mrs Maskels of this world as much as the multimillion pound company director who needs a 5* conference experience in a unique location for their global conference in three months!

And if this wordy honesty is not for you then fine. Perhaps you are not right for me? In writing as such, I may have instigated professional disaster. However, I’d counter that in telling you the story is transparent and telling. Our relationship is already different to most. You never know, we could learn from each other? Let’s at least have a no frills, honest conversation.

Three years later and I remembered!

Dear little lady beneath the window sill,

I’ve missed your rendition of Twinkle Twinkle since my return to England; watching only the end of your bow peek above the window sill as you repeat, and again, then perfect. The fact that your grandma attempted to sing with you in a language evidently alien to her used to make me smile. I listened, looking past your grandfather as he pottered and tended the plants behind the window that separated my cupboard garden and his makeshift shed; I looked for your bow which would wink above the line behind him.

I’d probably have been smoking a cheeky cigarette, or sitting at a bench in the cave’s kitchen and I remember never being annoyed at your playing, little lady beneath the window sill. That’s quite the surprise considering how many times you played it. I wondered whether this was fun for you. Or whether it was all part of the ‘perfecting’ process. I do hope it made you smile now and again either way.

It’s funny, little lady, now that I am far away, the things I hear from my window are different. Notwithstanding the drunks at the weekend, the voices are mainly families. This morning I heard ‘can I cross?’ yelled, sing song at a ‘mother’ lagging behind. I imagined the voice was probably on a scooter, or was streaming ahead with her doll and pram. Then the bin men came and through my open windows I could here them shout to each other. It’s funny, little lady, I smiled at their voices, I understood what they were saying – I was firmly planted home.

I must admit though, I miss my scooter terribly. I knew I would. Mounting pavements to avoid traffic, zooming (albeit silently) through Shanghai back streets, my hair whipping back; my eyes keen to catch a moment, stop, photograph then away zoom. I miss meeting a friend on the corner, laughing as she tries to swing her leg over the back behind me and not offering any assistance because it was so funny. Stopping in the middle of the road and leaving my bike to grab some radioactive strawberries from Avocado lady is very different to standing at the entrance to the vast imposing Fruit and Veg section in Sainsbury’s. Stopping at random bars, sitting atop Scoot in my pyjamas and eating a breakfast pancake watching the hecticness of the wet market unfold on a Sunday morning on Donghu/Changle inspires no comparison – but there are sausage rolls here: crisp, flakey, irresistible…

Transport alternatives here seem over-thought, expensive and regulated though, little lady. As I walked through the NO PEDESTRIAN EXIT exit of M&S carpark yesterday I recoiled slightly at the overbearing safety measure, the apparent need to paint ‘NO PEDESTRIAN EXIT’ on the floor, and lamented that a pedestrian does not seem to be given the credit to look both ways and a driver to slow on entry to a car park. I wanted my fully charged, electric scooter, a traffic jam, and a pavement freeway with human obstacles to avoid; I craved the challenge.

Living in your city, little lady, opened my eyes. When you must stop every five paces in the FFC because there is ‘something’ to remember/photograph/experience: a pavement vehicle loaded impossibly with boxes, a face to embed, a makeshift barber stand under a sheet on the street; the pancake lady packing up at 10 so the shift of dumpling makers could start for their stint before the noodle man took over later. Mad cat lady sitting, selling her insoles and swinging on the rotating chair she’d salvaged. I try to recall a journey of faces from my lane cave to the ice cream shop, stopping at lights and edging past the Mobike riders for whom taking off is a risky business. The bumps in the road, the randomly beautiful and intricate buildings; the long haired beggar that likes to entertain for his well-earned money; the young man stretching and swinging fresh noodles for the day, his sister sitting next to him on her phone: bored. The velour clad granny, talking violently to her companion – now and again they would wallop their upper arms or clap their hands: their circulation probably much better than mine at thirty years junior. The chairs! So many of them. The old people sitting on chairs. So many of them!

I aim to see my city like that. To notice now that I know what real noticing is. And I have to tell you that when I had been back a day and my train rounded a building to reveal The Shard glinting in the sun, the cranes building a city that is timeless yet ever changing, I felt that rush. That rush of anticipation and adventure that I was so fearful I’d lose when returning home. Then I realised that I would be fine.

So, there we are little lady beneath the window sill. I am back in London, a new adventure afoot. I hope you’ve mastered Twinkle Twinkle and have been rewarded for your commitment. I wonder if one day I will visit and hear you again. Perhaps when you have grown above the sill, beyond your granddad’s pots and out of the lane that made me part of Shanghai. I’ll not forget you, or mad cat lady, or the sweet warm cake aroma cloud that Ben the baker filled our lane with. I wonder if you’ll remember that strange westerner not much taller than you that loved her cave and her neighbours for a brief and happy time. Good luck and thank you.

A Trip to the Woods

How red wine, driving Toad, Wordsworth, China, the woods and I all met one stormy morning.

Arms thrust backwards, face towards the sky, sunglasses protecting the other walkers from my bleary red eyes and me from the meagre light squeezing through the dense grey clouds, I challenged – full of fate defying bravado – the winds to burst through the red wine grog head currently destroying my morning. I had felt that a stomp around the exotic woodland of Rickmansworth Aquadrome on such a morning would be the perfect strategy for obliterating the hangover I had been trying to ignore, yet even with the frequently occurring pulse quickening skid across wet leaves, morning rain blasting from the leaves into my face and encouraging yet somewhat wary ‘good mornings’ from the suspicious, stubbornly unwaveringly friendly dog walkers, I still found it difficult to open my eyes. Again, I stopped raised the arms and called/begged to the winds.

I was reminded of my recent trip to the Lake District. The recollection of me as I drove in the middle lane of the M6 acknowledging the three Mercedes white vans driving next to each other at the same speed across the lanes behind me. My lumpy grey Peugeot the Cate Blanchett ethereal body and the majestic vans my outstretched elfin sleeves as I glided up our tarmacked trail. Somewhat difficult to imagine perhaps but I enjoyed the moment before moving past the ridiculous 17year old gripping the wheel in her trendy little fiat, fear and concentration firmly etched in her face. I, graceful and challenging; she, fearful and tense – oh, she was missing out in her rigid bearing.

Still, as difficult and sanguinely desperate as it was to imagine myself an airy being gliding over a central British motorway, I did feel that I was at last having a mini adventure. Brown, orange and yellow leaves gathered at the edges of the motorway, much like the sand used to do in Dubai when we would set off on a road trip to the desert. Fields and sky rose as I zoomed around bends and while I was not greeted by majestic giant dunes or rugged mountains of Oman, I was warmly gathered into the rolling carpeted hills of the midlands and particularly loved the miles before and after the M6 toll station, an area the frugal brits clearly avoid.

My adventure continued as the satnav upon which I disappointingly depended, guided me to the centre of a field, apparently two minutes away from my destination. I followed, naively, avoiding sheep and waving politely and strained at the bearded bobble-hatted dog walker who greeted me hesitantly as I jumped and hopped over the boulders and pot holes of a haphazard and vague concrete path. It was as I approached a rotten, fractured and windswept gate, guarding nothing but more grass and sheep that had not quite figured out that there was no fence either side of the gate, that I considered that perhaps the destination was not quite the intended one.

I paused, the sheep wandering over to investigate their unexpected visitor and considered how this could have happened. Was my expectant host playing a trick on me? Surely not – she’d been waiting for me for bloody hours. Had the sat nav decided that the lonely tractor atop a horizon of fields was worth contemplating at sunset? Or perhaps this gate, in its pointless yet determined stance had drawn me here, miraculous Stonehenge mysticism interfering with satellite signals. Unlikely. Forming recollective shape in my mind, however, was a seemingly insignificant and clumsy necessary pitstop I had been obliged to take two hours before. On lowering to the toilet seat, I was instructed by my jacket pocket that I should continue forward 200 yards. I panicked. Attempting to balance, hovering over the seat while also switching off the satnav and acknowledging the sniggers escaping the lady in the cubicle next to me, I had assumed I’d rectified the rogue robotic voice. Perhaps, however, I had inadvertently switched the destination to the centre of Cumbria, thereby introducing a deviation from route and the ultimate intended destination of my friend’s house in Kendal? I was as stumped as the sheep surrounding me and shared, just for the moment, their helplessness.

Still, here was some drama; the sparse, beautiful yet harsh surroundings; the fact that the red light had just appeared beneath my petrol gauge; the intimidating realisation that I had to make a 360 degree turn in a mud sodden field in my tired little 207. The amphibious facade of the car, however, manifest into impressive action as my little toad once again gathered momentum and hopped across the field – hopefully toward the re-established correct destination.

I arrived. Eventually. We sat, reunited and back to normal after too long apart and talked as if we’d never been apart; of times before, things to come and plans for the next day’s adventure. An appropriate outing was selected: a trip to Dove Cottage. Where else would I go other than to the infamous home of Wordsworth and temporary abode of his slightly more edgy friend Coleridge. Yes, of course I wanted to see where they created, appreciated and explored – in more ways than one. Toad, again lived up to her name as we crashed through the grasping waters of Windermere which had burst onto the road after heavy rains. Windows steamed up, wipers not quite able to cope we splashed, avoided and burst through until we found the cottage. Beneath the low, dark door frames, I ducked unnecessarily and listened to the guide recount his daily dab of knowledge that he bestowed upon city heathens and Chinese tourists (I was actually grateful and a little smug to use a Mandarin again – a simple ‘thank you’ was enough). As well as looking through the windows they did, tripping the same board as they possibly did, sitting in the very same chair that the poet did, we learned that this little cottage was a central hub for social gatherings and visitors. I loved it. I loved that Wordsworth and Dorothy welcomed and entertained in this impracticably small but gorgeous home. Again, I thought to my cave in Shanghai; to the dinners I cooked and the people dotted around the small space. The laughing, the wine bottles, the neighbours stopping by and nodding, smiling bemused at the strangers.

So what with the delicious geek fest tour, the trudging, dilapidated castles on dramatically green hills surrounded by a violently beautiful blue sky, cinema, cosy pubs with open fires, my realisation about BMW drivers (perhaps next time) and many other seemingly insignificant but oh so fulfilling moments, my mini trip to the Lakes was rather wonderful. How strange, I pondered, that Shanghai, England of 300 years ago, a dramatically wet day in the Lake District with my friend Katie, and now a dreadful hangover are somehow linked and fond. Another stab of pain above my right eye ball and a heavy lurch from my stomach, however, brough me crashing right back to reality. Down dropped the breeze, my arms dropped down, twas sad as sad could be. My stomach did speak, if only to break, the pause in medicinal rhythm… by the side of a spooky nook of the wood back in Rickmansworth. I was reminded lamentably of the task at hand and trudged on.

Dear Mr man in the Van #2 of 3.

So I remember when I leave:

Dear Mr Man in the van,
I thought I’d mention that you fixed something the other day. Your stare as you sat stationary at the lights in that battered yellow and grey vehicle with blacked out windows; while one elbow rest upon the open window frame and the other casually on the wheel, provided me with a moment of clarity. Well actually, Mr Man in the Van, it was more your nod. You looked at me standing in the drizzle emotionless and I stared back. We sized each other up, me in my wellies and gym kit, you waiting for the light change. Then when I nodded briefly at you; you, grim, straight but real, afforded me a short, tight nod. No falsely sincere gazes over a tightly cupped mug of tea would I receive from you. No fingers meandering through ideas, flicking away relevance and grasping weakness would one experience over a meeting table with you. Your self-serving interest would be honest, there, raw. You would not require the tactical meandering manipulation of the modern world because quite simply, what is the need?
I think, Man in the Van, that I felt I earned something when you nodded. You had bestowed something. For a fleeting moment, I think it was respect. And, you know what, Mr Man in the Van, even though you were playing Roxette ‘It must have been Love’, even though your mustard jumper with brown fleck was a tad on the aged side, I was strangely but definitely proud of myself when you nodded.

And respect to you too, Mrs weighted by a literal world on your shoulders lady who wobbled slowly past me at my table top station the other day. Hunchback in a huge grey cardigan, you, determined yet hindered, stumbled straight into Fuxing Lu. Eyes not leaving the floor to which they were unavoidably fixed, you demanded something which many in Shanghai could not have achieved – not without a fluorescent jacket and a whistle anyway: you stopped cars. The dignified authority with which you stopped the traffic should not be underestimated and as I watched you hobble slowly across the road raising your hand slightly behind you towards the cars as if to say, ‘don’t you dare’, I admired you. At your age, Mrs weighted by a literal world on your shoulders lady, you’d have seen some hard times in Shanghai so what’s a little traffic jam? You take your sweet, sweet time.

The moments I want to remember, Mr Wooden Paradise, are today written mostly from my vantage point outside your tiny, very wooden, very well stocked bar. I sit, as well you know, at the high table that I like, on the stool that I like, facing the direction I favour. You are playing loud bands from the 60s and have just delivered me an Asahi which I ordered with a thumbs up after you enthusiastically pointed to the pump. Your welcome makes me happy, your apparent pleasure at seeing me or my friends makes me feel valued and your free shot at the end of the night, fresh cold beer on a Friday afternoon, chilli peanuts and prime people watching location in the midst of a tree lined, busy French Concession street make this one of my favourite places in Shanghai. I do wish you’d get a bigger tank for the fish though, Mr Wooden Paradise, they’re hardly even able to get a good length in – they’ll never grow like that, Mr Wooden Paradise, surely know that?

To those in jumpers on a hot and sunny day, your friends in baskets on the front of bikes riding past me, ears flapping in the wind, shoulders back, tongues lapping up the bustle; to those in booties, those sitting at tables with places set; to the one with the protruding lower jaw that looks miserably yet authoritatively at passers-by while you sit atop the cigarette counter down Yongjia, I don’t know why your owners do it to you. But perhaps by making you their babies, you are in a better place than some dogs in China.

To the mobike riders who wobble, shriek and block the road: you are annoying. It has to be said. And in my superior dissension, I have cursed you time and time again. I must, however, resist doing that – the assumption that anyone can ride a bike is arrogant considering that not everyone has the chance to do so when young. So I must try to be kind although for the love of god and the safety of other road users, try doing it in shoes that are not bedecked in chains atop a three inch wedge and let your eyes see the direction in which you intend by removing the visor with a circumference the size of a mobike wheel – I am sure you look tremendously hip and cool but you’ve crashed twice into the pavement, twice into your friend and once into the phone box. You know, crazy idea but it might also help if you put your phone away.

And while I’m there, Mr Tourist sees a westerner, I knew you weren’t taking a picture of the phone box, it’s difficult to be subtle with a lens that size. If only you had asked, I’d have struck a pose. Although perhaps me rummaging through the bowl of greasy nuts with a pint in front of me was actually what you wanted – natural habitat and all that.

I giggled inappropriately, Mr Silver Fox with a big belly, when you told your tiny girlfriend about the property prices in London. I am sure she was really very interested but the way that she pursed and relaxed her lips in a little game only she was playing; the way she stared into distant space and twisted her hair made me suspect not. However, I doubt that it was the age gap, size deficit or language barrier that was the cause of her tedium – to be fair, I was bored by the brief snippet I was privy to as you walked by and I was not the one clinging to your arm.

Don’t worry man sitting in the old lady chairs below my table, I have not been ‘stood up’, I chose to come here alone – I like it. But thanks all the same – it was pleasant of you to say ‘cheers’ when the refill appeared.

I’m glad you’re not really collecting bodies, Mr ‘Bring out your dead’, as that would indeed be rather a grim task. I do wonder, however, at the business you’re in. I rarely see people appear when you ring the bell at the front of your trailer. What is it that you collect? I hear your call, see now the bell that you ring – flat, bronze, the shiniest thing on your battered and rusty bike – but I do

Just a couple of chairs.

Where my ladies sit.

Never bored!

Watching and sitting.

not see any goods collected. I wonder at where you live and what you do with the wares that you may or may not collect. I wonder at what you eat for dinner and glance briefly at my half full still cold beer. You pay me no attention and I don’t blame you but I wish you good luck and want to remember your call. The lights have changed now, Mr ‘Bring out your dead’, you’ll be needing to unfold the legs you raised and rested on the ‘crossbar’, release the brake, ring your bell, call and leave.

I guess that you Lady in slippers and flannelette coat atop pyjamas wandering down the road, I am of no relevance to you either although we briefly connect as my eyes raised from my glass. I was distracted, however, when I noticed the green fly flailing around in my beer – doomed little bastard. When I looked again, you’d disappeared shuffling off down a lane probably to sit with neighbours on rickety wooden stools or a random armchair lifted from someone’s rejects. The afternoons spent watching, talking, shuffling are very different to those of 30 years ago, I’d imagine. And I wonder if your grandchildren will ever do that: simply sit. I regret not having the language capabilities to communicate with you and others of the lanes – I really do. I am disappointed in myself for not persevering but consider that perhaps sometimes just a glance is enough.

So it was to you, Mr Man in the van that I wanted to write. Not from the pavement side of the massive Huaihai where I saw you early that morning but from the little world outside Wooden Paradise when on one Sunny Saturday afternoon I parked my scooter and placed myself in the corner of a little world in Shanghai. Thank you for reminding me about respect, even though you possibly didn’t mean it, probably thought I was ridiculous, if you gave it a second thought at all, and potentially was just passing the time at the lights by looking at a stranger; it meant something to me.

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.

Does boot camp mean no more pubs?

I am not a typical ‘boot camp’ kind of person. I do not respond well to being shouted at; I do not like to fail and my vacillating commitment level to exercise varies somewhere between stubborn refusal and fearful avoidance. Still, I knew no one would expect me to do it so this grim assumption combined with the realisation that my clothes were becoming rather too snug in rather too many places aided my resolve. After a procrastination filled ‘sleep’, arise I did, and join I did, the already shadow boxing or running on the spot friends and colleagues in the gym.

Of course, I did have brand spanking new trainers which I proudly and inappropriately passed around the table at a brunch the day before, inadvertently quashing my ‘ooh I don’t own the right equipment’ excuse. The weight of the ‘I’m too busy’ excuse was dwindling as my waistline was thickening. Would I stop eating and drinking as existing habits currently dictate? Unlikely. Would I at least stop eating Snickers bars for breakfast at the weekend? I confess, I would try. Would I moan, grunt, sweat, swear and growl? Yep! And would I do it all in my beautiful new trainers and patched up running leggings (a hole having been repaired with a cross stitch of ribbon after the flying over the handle bars of my bicycle incident nearly a year ago. Really, you can’t blame me for fearing exercise when my two previous attempts have left me either with a broken foot or laying splayed across the pavement having been vaulted over my bicycle handlebars)? It would seem so.

Walking was a problem for at least three days post session one. As was lowering myself onto the toilet or stepping down the two tiny steps outside my apartment. So too, was the psychological battle that commenced when I knew I was doing things wrong. Who would have thought that exercise would be something you could get so very wrong. Lunging, for example. It’s not simply a case of taking a long low step forward. Oh no; my balance, strength and direction would need to be correctly aligned in order for me to avoid injury as well as benefit from any muscular development. I was willingly albeit timidly stepping into a situation where I would look ridiculous, feel entirely stupid, and I would do it all in lycra – very much not my cup of tea, I assure you.

Now despite the amusement certain colleagues took in dropping things on the floor when they knew I couldn’t bend to pick them up, or the tiny little shove that would send my punished body into the wall due to my inability to engage muscles necessary for balancing after the afore mentioned shove. And despite those same colleagues guffawing loudly if the necessity to walk bow legged and at any speed presented itself, I actually did it. And, do you know what? I was fairly proud of myself. I was the weakest by far. I was uncoordinated, very red and rather more bouncy than athletic in the star jumps. I was a little bit rude and a tad moody (yes, I know) but I managed a few sessions, even enjoying a little dance between exercises.

Careful consideration a month after starting boot camp has left me wondering whether it takes a very special kind of person to dedicate themselves to exercise. My commitment has dwindled despite my evident enjoyment and the positive results (even after a horrifyingly prompt reversal of positive results following a fun filled Easter). Yet still I waiver. Still I fear injury; still I find a new and rather enjoyable morning routine involving menu variation and reading; still I reassure myself that by walking 15 minutes five times a week, I am exercising. I wonder what flaw it is that prevents me from committing to exercise when I seem so keen to discuss the need for it. As I ponder this troubling conundrum, carefully sashaying away from the frequent appearance of the word ‘lazy’ into the forefront of my mind, I realise something very important: if I do not get back to boot camp, I will have to go shopping. Well, when this little train of thought emerges and I am drawn to memories of me crashing through crowds, squeezing into small clothes in small changing rooms and queuing in a place where queues either mean uncomfortable bunches of foot treading purchasers or violent places of dagger drawn looks and poised elbows, I might chance the drill sergeant shouting ‘Get your butt down, Kerry!’ during The Plank or ‘Get those knees off the floor!’ during push-ups. Maybe I’ll make a little deal with myself though and do two of the three a week – I am very busy after all!

Room 101: My Favourite place in Shanghai

Mad Cat Lady only ever knocks gently on my door. It’s as if she’s nervous, half wandering whether she should knock or not. I was outside scrubbing my rough clay Arabic water jug, which was playing welcoming host to a thin green moss, a moss encouraged to grow by the creeping dampness invading my cave at present. Anyway, I just made out the light tap and gentle, almost whispered ‘Kerry?’ and called for her to come in. She wouldn’t of course, so I went to her. She gestured for me to follow her and shuffling in her slippers took me into her home workshop. There were no beds or seats other than the ones beneath the three sewing machines that sat under lines upon lines of multicoloured threads orderly in neat rows above my head. Lines of colourful thread which, by the way, she appeared not to use if the insoles that she sells on the street are anything to go by. It was at once entirely captivating and industrious, I was desperate for my camera but I was distracted by her having thrust a cream woollen beret into my head. Momentarily stunned, my gaze followed her gesticulations to a selection of hats which we, through sketchy Mandarin and English, managed to establish were made by her daughter – a daughter I’m not sure I’ve ever seen.

I have a small head ish, so the strange cap like creations she roughly plonked onto my head fell over my eyes, making her chuckle. Muttering, she climbed the thin wooden steps onto the floor above, a mezzanine of sorts, and dragged down a box as big as her which, I was soon to discover, was full of hats. Despite my protestations which were disregarded with hand signals and rebuttals, she rummaged. Shit, I had hoped for an early night and I still had no idea what was happening back there in the cold, dark workshop. I left eventually, a stinging refusal to my offer of paying ringing in my ears, with four hats, two of which were exactly the same and still confused, entered my flat; her tight lipped approving nod and awkward hug ensuring the lopsided grin remained while I picked up the sponge and jug again, resuming the task at hand.

I arrived home from England on a night flight and so Mad Cat Lady was not up when I got back after this summer. The first I saw of her was the following morning when I went to check whether my bike was still there, in our lane. It was. Nestled between a scrap metal trolley and a thin electric scooter, it was waiting. Someone had covered the seat with a shower cap and had wrapped the handle bars, pedals and back arch in plastic to protect it from the summer storms of Shanghai. I wanted to cry. This kindness was a little more than a sentimental, jet lagged, vulnerable me could cope with but the tears didn’t appear because suddenly there she was. Chop sticks hovering above the bowl she cupped in her hand she saw me and actually yelped; panicked slightly as to where she should put the bowl then just chucked them down and took a little old lady jog towards me. I wasn’t quite sure what to do so just grinned at her until she reached me, paused in a slight embarrassment then just grabbed me. Smiling at her as she kind of told me off, pointing towards my bike – I think she was telling me off, you never can be too sure and proceeded to hit me with an avalanche of Mandarin which I just… grinned at. Much grinning ensued – I had no idea whatsoever what she was saying.

My other neighbour, Ben the camp Baker, has popped round a couple of times. Last time bringing with him his signature brownies which I was forced to share with the guests I had round for Paella Sunday – a day which started at 2 and ended at 11 after too much red wine. I love them, Ben the Camp Baker and Mad Cat Lady with her well fed and protective guardian cats. They make my lane a neighbourhood, a home; somewhere that I love cycling into, inviting people to, and living in.

Living in a typical ‘Lane House’ has its benefits while also offering draw backs. The creatures I share my cave with, spiders, slugs, bastard mosquitos and occasional cockroaches make it quite a challenge although I’d take them any day over the mouldy dampness that creeps through the pages of my books and ruins my shoes and clothes. But even with the invasive exploration of these creatures and natural processes, I will not move. The tenancy is up in December and I’ve already asked to extend. I may have taken on the dampness and occasionally waft with the unidentifiable ‘Chinese smell’ that permeates concrete walls and winding lanes of Shanghai but with this acceptance comes acceptance. I am part of my cave as much as I am not just the random ‘laowai’ who lives on the ground floor of number 7 in room 101: I am part of it.

I reckon Shanghai kind of gets you like that. It is somewhere to which I have become incredibly fond. Walking the streets around where I live, or more often cycling them; meeting my friends in new and weird wonderful cafes and closet bars; knowing the staff, learning how Avocado lady sells the cheapest and best imported goods from her packed out ‘hole-in-the wall’ shop for prices that are fair is far greater an experience than heading to the featureless city supermarkets. Admittedly, I crave a Sainsburys sometimes and I still rarely eat the meat; I’ve not been very successful with learning the language or tolerating nose picking, spitting and ear rummaging. I still want to elbow people in the head when they shove me back into the carriage of the metro I’d been attempting to disembark. I still can’t understand why the parent on the scooter next to me at the lights is wearing a helmet while their child at their feet, peeking over the handle bars has none. But what I love is that while sitting at that traffic light, sneering at such apparent disregard, I notice a balcony right from 1920s China peeking from behind an open iron gate, foliage spoiling from the front and wrapping itself around the columns below. I can see Shanghai as it was then and I look around with new eyes at a city that is both inspiring and stomach churning, realising that to be content here, one must simply give themselves a chance to live here.

Indulging in the odd massage and attending a glitzy brunch is fine if I can spend a day at the weekend on the back of my friend’s moped exploring or wandering around taking pictures of the chairs that frequent the tree lined streets of the Former French Concession. I love its secrets and I love being thrown out of a lane which I’ve been drawn into because I shouldn’t be there but catching a glimpse of a magic balcony before I do. I love the hand made flute that the homeless man plays at the end of my road and jumping on my bike to meet my friend for an Asahi in our favourite bar even though we’ve both given up alcohol for a week.

And even though I am scared of talking to Mad Cat Lady because I can’t express what I am trying to say to her, I love that I arrive home to her waving at me or mischievously telling me something of the other neighbours, only knowing that’s what she’s doing because of her hasty series of hand gestures and conspiratorial eye brow raises and nods. I love that Ben thinks Mad Cat Lady is crazy and tells me so any time I bump in to him.

I will leave Shanghai one day in the not too distant future, but I am so happy that I got to ‘feel’ it before I do. I will not look forward to telling Mad Cat Lady when I eventually leave. I have a feeling she likes to look after me in her own way and I think she might feel sad but I will thank her, and leave her with her husband and cats, he who occasionally allows himself to engage by nodding and them who eye me suspiciously and circle her feet whenever she drags me off to explain something through her battered phrase book.

Until that day, I will continue to accept her little gifts (a bucket brimming with pomegranates the week before last!), offer my own in return and smile as she talks to my friends as they arrive at my house – particularly Pippa who was told off by Ben for having a red bike as it would ‘tempt the robbers’ and who gets dragged into random conversations nearly as often as I do.

It’s a cosy little place and I’m almost looking forward to winter.

A year ago: there appears to be a theme…

A few older posts to paint a picture of a weekend a year ago while I construct a blog that tells of the summer of 2016; a return to Shanghai when everything had changed but nothing had changed and finally finding a foothold in this most colourful of places.

10^th September 2015

Crickey! Three whole days of sunshine, blue skies and pollution levels of less than 70! No need for the mask today! If one was not stuck in one’s classroom – teaching of all things – one might be able to sit out of doors and enjoy a cool beer whilst breathing with neither hesitation nor fear that what you’re sniffing in is conveniently disintegrating the nasal hair you (dismayed) found this morning.

Of course I exaggerate: nasal hair has not yet become a problem. The beard, however…

I am very much enjoying the sunshine, especially today when I strolled around the school grounds for part of my lunch break. In the 15 minute escape I managed to assail my companion’s ear with the bullet fired niggles of the day and disgust her with the proud introduction of my new friend: tiredness manifest, the sty/boil/lump clinging to my upper eyelid – on the left as you look at me – be both shockingly ugly and rather uncomfortable. It’s been interesting though, watching people deliberately not looking at it. I’ve rather enjoyed tilting my head slightly back and to the side to see how long it takes for the attempted subtle realisation of my pupils and colleagues

14^th September – banished to the sofa

When I finished season three of Sons of Anarchy today, a realisation dawned on me. Firstly, that I had not used my voice all day. Secondly, that I was actually quite attached to Jax Teller and wasn’t sure whether I was ready to cease and/or sever our relationship as yet – however one sided that relationship might be. Thirdly, that for three weeks in a row I had placed exactly the same order from the online shopping company I am now prone to using. Cumulatively, I suspect that these three admissions suggest something about my character that I am not quite ready to explore.

Of course I only had the one solitary day this weekend and this isolation was self-inflicted. My body had decided that my left eye stalactite was not possibly interesting enough and so introduced the ‘infected slug’ to my eyelid. It was fairly revolting although thankful for small mercies, not weepy. Hesitant to avoid scoffs, I attempted to hide the inflamed mound of lumpiness behind sunglasses and a cleverly placed fringe. However, the growing heat filled swelling would peep round until it was noticed thence pulsate in gratified contentment: a glowing mass below the forehead.

Was my infected lumpy eyelid a result of Chinese water, dirt, a sty, a bite, all or any of the above? Who knows but now it is reducing and by Monday evening, maybe Tuesday I am hoping for normalcy. Besides my house-arrest, I experienced good and bad of China this weekend, Art in The City being a creative and exciting adventure much needed.

However, as I attempted to print some photographs at the mall this weekend, I was ignored and slighted by shop staff who flat out refused to acknowledge my presence in their shop. Chinese people stepped in front and even they seemed to feel awkward as sales staff determined in their rudeness. I may have uttered a swear word as I left the shop, defeated, a little dejected and certainly devoid of the photographs I had intended to collect. I’d even tried to speak Chinese!

It got me thinking though. It got me thinking about my reaction to things here. How it is so very important, if one is to maintain sanity, to acknowledge the obvious: that China is not England, and my values, morals and the things I assume are common sense, simply are not. And this does not have to be a bad thing. It might be uncomfortable, infuriating and occasionally the catalyst for enormous self restraint but it is not my place to change any of it. If someone hawks and spits on the floor in front of me, I should not judge or feel compelled to vomit on their feet in reply. This careful contemplation was set in motion, you see, one morning as I sat on the bus considering the important music selection for the day; eyes down, I was arrested by the sudden flood of warmth and sunshine as we turned a corner. I closed my eyes momentarily to soak it up. Before I knew it, my bask was stolen by a vicious yank to the curtain next to me. As my eyes flew open, I discovered an arm in my face. Across my face. In my effing face. I was furious! Furious because the woman next to me had decided that the briefest of flashes from the sunshine would turn her and her daughter to dust, her daughter, who had been kicking my ankles since she sat down needed immediate and effective salvation so ‘mother’ had taken it upon herself to reach across my face (have I already mentioned that) and pull the curtain.

I had to think about this. My reaction, I mean. Do I swear, deliver a death glance and place the curtain back into its plasic hulster? Do I enquire from her her possible motivation and reasoning for having been so rude as to invade my personal space so severely by thrusting her arm in my face and removing the view which I was intending to allow to blur while I enjoyed my music. Was it because she was Chinese? Would a Brit have done such a thing? I assume that invariably a Brit would have tapped me lightly on the arm and asked if I would mind – to which I would ultimately have said ‘of course not, go ahead’. Therefore if I react in a very British way, will my sentiment be lost? I looked at her. Really looked. I looked at her daughter and decided that angry protestation would could be perceived as aggressive due to the child’s presence and I would subsequently become the monster of the situation. I considered whether this made me weak – others would simply have torn the curtain back again. However, my decisions have tended to be quite passive this weekend. To the excessively rude woman on the bus, I did nothing other than turn Kasabian up REALLY loud and turned my back as I revealed enough of the window for me to gaze through. To the horrid men in the shop I did nothing other than call them rude ***** and head to the massage shop to buy myself a consolatory foot massage. While I was photographless, I didn’t want it to be a wasted trip to the mall!

So I reckon, even though the ‘rudeness’ that I deem ‘rudeness’ is difficult to take, if I can avoid confrontation where confrontation is unnecessary, I am the winner and I need to accept that here in China, ‘rudeness’ is not necessarily always ‘rudeness’. Although, whether I could have remained so calm if her hair had touched my bare arm, or if she ever does that to me again…
I was tempted to frighten them both by lifting my sunglasses and unleashing the beast but thought that could have been a step too far! Here’s to hippie happy and calm contemplation – let’s see how long it lasts.

27^th October 2015 – Dreamy

I apologise. It’s been a while and I was reminded yesterday that some of you might like to know what’s currently going on for me in China!

I shall start in a bustling courtyard on a sunny Sunday morning; the buzz of people echoed by the hazy fuzz in my head: a result of an evening on cheap white wine. Sat on rickety metal stools before wooden half crate tables, my breakfast: a huge Bloody Mary and a pan of shashuka arriving just as I plonked down. Perfect. Added to this was the Rolling Stones greatest hits playing in the background and the barrage of well-intended ridicule heading my way for my apparent flirtation with a quantum physicist the night before – I didn’t get anywhere and he ignored my pleasant greeting on Monday, may I add. Can’t imagine how my charm was resisted in that situation although I do recall asking him to ‘dumb it down’ a couple of times?

It was a great start to a strange day. I’m not sure if it was the Bloody Mary topping up the alcohol from the night before or the tiredness from a hectic term combined with post-holiday blues causing a hallucinatory state or perhaps I had an extreme sugar high (I found an old school sweet shop and quickly ate about 30 foam mushrooms, lest they disappear) but my journey home was interesting. I became obsessed with the girl walking in front of me: her side ponytail and undercut; her matt & battered red rucsac (which I decided I needed) and her skinny legs – how the bloody hell did they carry her let alone a funky backpack filled with something blatantly arty and interesting? Anyway, before I knew it, she’d disappeared and my feet had taken me to the plant market near my house. It wasn’t an unpleasant place to awaken after a reverie and I continued to walk among the foliage fingertips brushing leaves until I was drawn to two particularly lovely plants which I promptly bought (about 3gbp in total), making friends with the stall holder with whom I could not converse but was compelled to hug.

Anyway, after all this excitement, I headed home and had a nap before heading out again for a Stella and a couple of tacos.

All that in one day! I know! Exciting eh? Of course there is lots to tell and of course, I am late and have to leave work imminently but please know that I am fine, happy and fully functioning, even without the aid of the radioactive yet still ‘natural’ plums that everyone here seems to eat (I’ll fill you in another time!).

From her Poppy

It’s a very different ‘blog’ I write today. You see, I left Shanghai for summer in London and the jet lag barely subsided before we were called to the hospital: my nan had suffered a heart attack and was critically ill. Perhaps one day I will write about tubes, vigils and being lost but for today I copy the eulogy I was asked to write and read at the ceremony where my dancing queen nan was imagined dancing goodbye before her coffin to Frank Sinatra, Bocelli and Glen Miller. What a lady.

‘My nan was by no means a saint. And I don’t think she would want to be described as such. She was extraordinary, but not a saint. Saints are boring. A saint would not ignore air raid sirens during the blitz so that she could watch the end of a show. A saint would not say a very rude word to a man at the top of windmill hill when he cut her up at the lights (even though it was her that had driven through a red). A saint would not gauge the size of a parking space by bouncing off the cars either side or need to drive to Red Cross gigs down the road to deliver dj equipment at the age of 89. And a saint probably wouldn’t eat 99p chicken Kiev’s from Iceland. And a saint could probably pronounce ‘quiche’.

In fact I know she would not have wanted to be a saint. There would be far less sherry (a pleasure she enjoyed and intended to continue enjoying if the shopping list we found at her flat was anything to go by: bread, butter, wine, sherry and chocolate buttons for Taylor). There would be less dancing, probably less laughing, or maybe less laughing so loudly and a saint would probably not care so much about looking smart and chic every single day.

No, she wasn’t a saint. But… she was a legend. Not to labour a point but a legend has many saintly qualities such as a tireless inclination to love, a desire to make people happy, a rather admirable neat and tidy flat… A legend will have all of these qualities, as nan did in abundance, but they will also have an edge. A fun, laughter filled edge. They would inspire stories, unique and shared and I bet that 9 times out of 10, someone will be laughing at the end of them.

There can be no doubt in the minds of nan’s family and friends that her pride in us was infallible. Even though we left her to go off on travels, or did not visit as often as we could, she would never fail to delight in hearing from us even when she would say who’s that? And we would all reply ‘your favourite’.

When I used to visit nan we tended to watch a video in the afternoon, and that is an actually video. It took her so long to figure out how to use that that introducing her to a dvd player seemed rather too ominous a task. After making sure that I had everything I needed: tea, biscuit, chocolate etc, she’d settle down into her arm chair hold the remote as far towards the telly as she actually could from a seated position then holster the same remote in the strange fluffy cat thing that she had hanging off of the arm of the chair. Ultimately and often, I would end up on the floor at her feet, next to the poof, and she would have her hand on my head, and would be stroking my hair like a natural reflex, those soft beautiful hands making me safe, relaxed, a child again.

We would hang out, listen to the music she loved, we’d watch tv in the evening after nan had cooked a dinner, taking her time, preparing everything, folding empty plastic bags with precision, storing boxes for recycling and ensuring that every scrap of food that could be used, was used. There was to be no wastage, a lingering habit perhaps from the war days. And then perhaps when we would finish dinner and polish off the last of the warm Liebfraumilch (cold if I was lucky) we would head off to bed, me going first so that I could try to fall asleep before she started snoring but ultimately failing. I would lay beneath those covers, sheets and blankets, in a bed so thoughtfully and carefully made that I would promise myself every time that I’d do away with the duvet and invest the time and commitment of a blanketed bed. Anyway, when she’d get in, ultimately those hands would pad around until she’d find my face, tap me gently tell me good night and then turn to sleep, not quite as talkative when she’s taken her teeth out.

In the morning was the fry up. Windows open throughout the flat, underwear, nighties, yesterday’s clothes already hanging on the window catches to dry after an early wash. I sat atop the little stool in the kitchen, not allowed to do anything except tell her stories about my adventures or the naughty kids at school which she delighted in. Nan would diligently take out the frying pans, remove the piece of kitchen roll that separates them and lay them out on the electric rings. Those beautiful and precise hands would select a specific knife for the tomatoes, get the scissors for the bacon, take her time over the mushrooms and set the plates out ready for warming before breakfast would be served. Cold plates were unacceptable.

She would be in her long nightdress, moving back and forth across the floor, her slippers padding purposefully and creating a sound I hope never to forget. Then she would set it all up on of the trays recently pulled from between the cooker and the cupboard, order me to sit down so that she could deliver a feast to her doting granddaughter with a cheeky pat on the cheek and a grin before she oofed into her chair to join me.

I tell you all this because there will be some part of my story with which you will recognise your own experience of nan. When, by simply making breakfast the way she did reflects how thorough she was, how committed to making the best of something and how much we were going to enjoy it, the same can be said of her approach to most things.

No one can deny that she enjoyed life and made the best of situations. When her ears stopped her from travelling by air, she ‘resorted’ to luxury cruises and coach trips. When she finished caring for the injured British soldiers during the war, she went chasing Americans ones with her cousin Sylvia. A Tesco shop would be far less arduous when a pub lunch punctuated the journey home. She had fun, she laughed so so much and that’s something which we should all do more.

In all of this, however, I think it essential to remember that this fun loving lady, the one that actually did run over my dad once, trapping him by the knees between two cars due to a mistimed joke; the one that left Milson trapped in the back of her car because she was laughing too hard to help him, it’s essential to remember that she was a powerhouse. My sisters and my cousins would never misbehave for nan. We would tease her because she loved that but we would never disrespect her. There was a strength in her that she didn’t need to use, we just knew it was there. As the doctors will have done when she was a young woman carrying my aunty with one lung having been collapsed due to TB treatment; like all of her friends when she got through losing her husband, my granddad, when he died far too early; like when she moved to a new area and needed to make friends yet was nervous. Like the bus driver and passengers will have seen beneath the wide eyed wonderment of nan after she had driven into the back of a bus having only recently passed her driving test on the 5^th attempt.

I remember talking about fear with her not so long ago. I told her I was tired of being scared about what I was doing, where I was working of what people thought and maybe didn’t think of me. She told me something that surprised me. She said that when she first went to the Red Cross morning on down the road, she was scared to go in. She had loitered at the doorway, unsure of herself and she had turned to leave before someone bumped into her and said something like ‘are you coming in?’ And she did. I had always thought her fearless and strong but far from making me doubt her, it made me admire her all the more. You see it made me see that it is ok to be scared, that actually the thing to ensure is that you face it head on and you grasp it and try anyway. Yes life was sometimes scary but it is also a challenge and something to be embraced and enjoyed.

My nan had a better social life than many of us have, from parties at number 68 to coffee mornings and dances with her friends of Croxley Green at the age of 89. She loved life, especially having met Milson lately so we were never too cross that she was difficult to reach. She loved people, her daughters, her friends, us, even the kids she used to squeeze into the back of the car after school. They would come as much to see her as to get a lift home, even with the screaming engine being driven up the hill in second gear. Her pride in her daughters, grandchildren, great grandchildren and friends was immeasurable. Her life in Cherwell Close, especially since meeting Milson makes me happy as she was. She made us all feel good and happy and loved and in turn we adored her as well she knew. A legend will live on forever with love like that, and stories like our stories which I have no doubt we’ll share. I am thankful that her blood runs through me, I am grateful to have been inspired by such a lady. I am so sad that those hands will not stroke my head again but I will remember the way they did forever.

I leave you with three vital ‘nan rules’ that my sister reminded me of earlier this week. Firstly, never leave the house without having made your bed. Second: always apply a little lipstick once you’re ready to leave the house because you never know who you are likely to meet. And finally, if you want to get really drunk, drink wine through a straw. Take heed, it’s the advice lovingly delivered by my nan, your mum, your chocolate nanny and your companion, your friend: a true legend.’

Finding feet

Reviewing the blog I intend to publish today nearly a year later, I deliberate the extreme difference in life and perspective that moving from Pudong to Puxi inspired. As opposed to the occasional grey bleakness of my journey to work from the Pudong side, I now feel part of a life in Shanghai which is partially but significantly, integrated (it helps that I’m being taught Shanghainese by my mad cat lady neighbour who fixes socks on the side of the road for a living and who, when not fixing socks or chatting to the crooked old lady next door on rickety wooden stools, seems to cook immense amounts of fish from dawn until dark for the multitude of cats that loiter around our doors – they bask in no more love from me than a ‘ni hao’ when I get in from work).

I am the new laowai. Discussed, aided and embraced (that was not fun) by my new community and I love it. But more on that in future posts – for now, I continue with my recollection of my early days in Shanghai where I am in Pudong, happy although still ‘alien’ and not quite flush with my surroundings, suffering the odd splinter of doubt but hovering a hesitant open palm over the twig broom handle of Shanghai that I am allowed to occasionally grasp.

1^st September 2015

It’s September, I’ve been here six months and still feel the need to to better acquaint myself with Shanghai, to ‘sink my teeth in’ as I so earnestly projected in my last post. I have decided that using the Metro could be a most enlightening tactic. By using the Metro, I am forced to wander to my eventual destination thereby discovering interesting and magical places of wonder on my journeys. So far, I have discovered that I inevitably walk the wrong way when I leave the station thus necessitating an extra half hour on top of journey times so as to maintain punctuality. I have also noted that the screen shot category on my phone gallery is filled with limited maps and taxi cards in case of the need for ‘back-up’. An A-Z would be useful; when attempting to purchase one yesterday in a lovely little book shop, I discovered that this most useful little map book was unavailable so I had to settle for 80 quid’s worth of books and a mint-choc-chip ice cream.

The first two weeks of term has been fairly active. At school I am spending time on a new project involving ‘reading’ photography, enabling my pupils to identify skills in perception and inference before transferring them to the ‘reading’ of literature – a desperate but effective stalling project while I await book deliveries which has worked out pleasingly. I have a heacy timetable but have discovered that the additional demands on my time are an added stimulus and that when busy, I am (I might live to regret this) more effective.

Safe from misdirection and head down map reading on the school bus last week, I saw a redundant twig broom, laying battered, broken and bare on the pavement which was saddening. I wondered whether resurrection was possible, I really did.

The school bus is proving useful although full which means avoiding conversation as is my early morning predilection is becoming rather more difficult. Still, as I donned my headphones, hid within my hoodie and selected a little Dire Straits the other morning, I was able to view the passing scenery with a renewed guitar inspired perspective. ‘Brothers in Arms’ was gathering momentum with our speed and the buildings I passed blurred so that the rooves, when they could be seen, were mere flashes of pale orange and blue. Everything was a little more magical – even the almost derelict towers. Washing hanging on balconies, scooters apparently climbing walls and the odd topless, leathered old man stood watching the world go by, became a foggy haze (somewhat thankfully! One of the men standing, smoking on his balcony had rather a huge undulating chest from what I could make out – think Ursula from The Little Mermaid). As the drums launched at 4 minutes 14 seconds we simultaneously joined a faster, crazier road, it was all such a well timed immersive journey that I acknowledged I was having a lovely time and found myself wishing that some of you could see what I could see what I could see and framed this little snippet for the imaginary movie being created in my head. That was of course until a ‘newbie’ (affectionate term under which I am no longer categorised) tapped me on the arm and ‘terribly sorry’ asked if I knew where they could pay their internet bill. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t and a little gutted to say my reverie was broken.

This week has involved consuming a variety of splendid food; a good old cheesy dance in the local pub for a friend’s birthday where the ‘oh no I couldn’t possibly’ was soon replaced my lightening quick footwork and timely jiggling to ‘Brown Eyed Girl; a dodgy MaiTai and a most unexpected street-side meet with an old colleague from Dubai while standing outside a restaurant in the French Concession. I shall endeavour to use the Metro, to explore the city and to eat healthily as my budget allows before Bali at the end of the month. Oh and so excited was I that I had discovered (or was given pointed advice to find) a place that serves Shashuka, that I proclaimed it loudly after breakfast! I was promptly informed that I had in fact been to this establishment at least twice and my friend could confirm as she had in fact been with me both times! Such are my amazing navigation skills and memory recall.

Oh and on a final note – in my attempt to socially integrate myself further, I have joined ‘wechat’. Well, when what I excitedly thought were lots of lovely messages saying ‘hello’ popped up, I was gutted, nay, a little crushed to see that I had joined a group that like to tell each other what they had for breakfast and so on and so forth. I guess it can’t always be ‘movie potential’.