29^th June 2015

During the 48ish hours it took me to get home this weekend, I took notes. If something struck me as particularly interesting, I would reach into my pocket for the phone with the fluid speed and intent of a determined experienced cowboy. A brief, infuriating, amusing or soul destroying moment would be billeted before the weapon was slung back into its holster resting patiently, calmly awaiting the next shot. In some ways, I wish now that I hadn’t, they act as a rather painful reminder.

It started with a slight delay. At 1am, I decided to get an ice cream to soften the annoyance. The boarding desk was under siege, assailed with people already annoyed due to potential problems with connections. I raised my eyebrows, unnecessary, I thought; smug, you might call me, I didn’t mind, the ice cream was delicious.

Doubt started to creep in when they issued vouchers and the delay, although as yet still a vague and ignored whooping great elephant in the room was not yet explained or clarified. Deducing that this was going to extend a tad, I watched the ensuing stampede of people heading for Burger King waving their vouchers and moving en mass but quickly, rather like those old cartoons where the main body of people would stay still but the legs would be going like the clappers in time to the crazy arse cartoon music. Whilst I was tempted to visit the great BK for a spicy bean burger dessert, there was no way I was going to battle the elbows and inevitable angst that a free food queue in Pudong airport would undoubtedly inspire.  I wouldn’t indulge – didn’t really need to, I reasoned, as the intention was to pop a sleeping pill as soon as we were on the plane so hunger wouldn’t factor.

We boarded. We sat on the plane for four hours although I didn’t really notice as I was asleep, the previously mentioned sleeping pill doing the trick (although I told my friend the day after that there was no need for the medicinal assistance as I’d just started reading his new book – oh the wit! It was before my will was broken, my hope dashed and my patience shot).

Suddenly we were disembarking. Shit! In my sleep interrupted hazy state I was sort of floated to a queue at passport control where the cloud diluted and realisation set in: I was going through passport control to enter the airport again! I somehow found my way to another queue, innocently following a small crowd that seemed to know where they were going; collected my bag and emerged, blinking, confused with a crowd surrounding a solitary harrassed Etihad representative who was telling everyone to get on to coaches but with no suggestion as to where or why we were doing so. It was about 5.30 am. I was on my way to a hotel in Shanghai, not able to go home to my flat as we didn’t know when the next flight was.

On the bright side we were allowed to indulge in the hotel breakfast. I joined two burly gentlemen – one German, one Russian, where we speculated through coffees, noodles and cheese, making full use of the spread. A quick nap, shower and 27 Etihad emails later, I was on another coach, (the first one of five – my new friends being the perfect people to ensure safe and prompt, unimpeded access to the front of the queue). I checked in, was guaranteed lounge access when in Abu Dhabi as my rearranged flight meant that I had 8 hours there. Fair, I thought – until I got there and it didn’t happen. Although, I get ahead of myself here, nothing about this vast journey home was that quick or simple.

Still in Pudong, I was through immigration, I was through security, I was back at the departure gate… When I found myself presented with another Burger King voucher four hours later, I declined and went to the airport bar. The disappointing descent of optimism was unlikely to fix itself with another queue, only red wine would pacify. From my elevated yet crushed position, I watched the scene before me, worryingly similar to the night before: the man slumped, arms crossed over his chest, black thick rimmed glasses efficiently tucked into his collar, exactly the same position as the night before; the same baby crying, the same mother ignoring the same child and the same man – desperately optimistic or stupid? – standing rigid at pole position for boarding.

Eventually, and again, a little hazily, we boarded. We sat on the Tarmac for five hours. Not fun. And very hot. What else can I say?

Still, to Abu Dhabi we were headed eventually and while watching a couple of movies – I’d forgotten how brilliant Strictly Ballroom is – we arrived. As we landed in Abu Dhabi, the feeling that I was somehow home was a surprise. Smells and colours that I immediately felt comfortable with wafted and enclosed me: a potent, heartwarming tonic. I sat, watching the planes as the Arabian sun rose over Tarmac and remembered the desert – my shoulders eased tentatively lower.

I thought my luck had changed when I got a brilliant seat for the Abu Dhabi to London leg. That was until 10 minutes in and the first baby started screeching. Three babies sometimes simultaneously, sometimes taking shifts, howled, bawled and keep me awake all the way home, literally ALL the way. I was ready to kill.

Got to the car hire desk: sorry, nothing we can do. You’ve lost 250 quid.

I had to get to the New Forest, I had a nephew’s fifth birthday party to attend! I needed another car and all they had was an Audi TT. Hmm, at least as I roared down the M3 the thrill kind of appeased me until I realised there was only 20km petrol left and what I was paying for one day was as much as a fiat 500 costs for two weeks.

Still, as I played pissed badminton with the folks at 9pm (so excited it was still light), after a fat roast and playdoh making session with my gorgeous boys; after chasing Taylor around and around the flower bed and taking Jake for a joyride in the TT, I think, tomorrow morning my mum will make me a fry-up like only she can; at least I’m home and at least I can have a bath. I have 5 weeks ahead of me where all of the above will turn into distant slightly irritating memories.

 

10^th June – Mosquitos!

I’m a little obsessed by the fact that I look like one of the cast from The Inbetweeners. Either one hungry little bugger or a whole gang of vampire mosquitos decided to have a party on my forehead while I slept the night before last then, not quite ready to call it a night, they partied on bouncing around my left arm and attacking at will.
AND who knew the bloodsucking little cretin could fly up to the 18th floor, I thought they’d turn to dust after the 13th…

 

15th June – Walking Walls

Status: It’s 5:00am and I would pay a million yuen for an ice cold, orange flavour Lucozade. And if this bloody spell check changes ‘flavour’ to ‘flavor’ one more time!

Such is the current state of affairs.

I have poisoned myself for the third time this weekend and my body has decided that enough is enough. So far this morning, I have skidded – without falling – on the rug, I misjudged the length of the bathroom wall and in doing so rendered myself slightly stunned after walking into the doorframe. I have confirmed the day three times on my phone and realised that my bike is still tied up to the railings outside the train station. Hmm.

There’s only one thing for it: I’m going to have to listen to the BeeGees on the bus this morning – I’m not sure that there’s much else that can salvage this day from my selfinduced toxic stupor.

 

16^th June 2015 – Broken 

Shanghai nearly broke me yesterday.
There are a veritable banquet of reasons why: a bad day at work; a mile and a half unnecessary walk in the wrong direction, in the dark, in the rain; the fact that people are not especially considerate with umbrellas and walk too slowly in the rain; silent mopeds without headlights on the pavement in the rain; the onset of trench foot; the fact that IKEA can move elusively behind trees and flyovers which renders the dominating huge superstore virtually impossible to find; the moment when you are in IKEA reeking both soggy doglike & sweaty exhausted and the till guy actually takes a wiff of his own t-shirt to establish whether it was him; the fact that I couldn’t even muster the energy to buy an ice-cream costing less than 10p; the bastard trolley not stopping when I loaded some shelves, rebelliously rolling away leaving me balancing a not insubstantial shelving unit on one knee flailing around trying to ineffectually calling it back before it decided it wasn’t to be spoken to like that and, spinning, crashed straight into my shins: aaaagh; relentless, unforgiving rain and not having wellies or a mac…

Did I want a handsome stranger to appear ride up on a trolley, whisk me away to the fitted kitchen section and pour me a glass of bubbly to enjoy while he went and spoke Chinese to the delivery, invoicing and payment counters? Yep. This time I did – I was nearly broken, I tell you! I was perfectly happy to give up and crash into the faux wooden mahogany garden patio furniture display along with my new reading chair topped trolley. But I didn’t. Still smelling, not smiling, I completed the necessaries (although I couldn’t walk back to get the ice-cream), propelled a warning vibe of mammoth proportions at the girl who tried to push in front of me at the taxi rank and drove back up the road that I had been stomping down an hour prior after exiting the station at the wrong exit.

5^th June 2015

A three day detoxifying, cleansing and hopefully weight-loss inspiring juice diet has left me 4lb lighter and so pure that I’m sure I glow. It’s so expensive that I doubt very much whether I’ll be able to eat anything else this month thereby ensuring a maintained positive outcome, a somewhat missed marketing opportunity perhaps? While I’m not likely to slip through drain gratings any time soon, it has been most encouraging to find that I have not wanted to rip anyone’s head off through hunger tempers and I am cleansed and pure – simple mathematics allowing me to work out that far too often this is not the case.
I’m glad that I had this most structured plan to focus on my return from Vietnam; I suffered the most dreadful post-holiday blues. They descended on the homeward bound flight when I realised it was a little too early for a glass of red wine and the imminent jobs, work, to-do list solidified and became tangible rather than remaining as smokey vague ideas that occasionally drifted into my head during this most adventurous of holidays. I gave up and went to sleep. Then as we disembarked, queued and emerged into the battlefield of Pudong arrivals hall, shoulders slumped and my companion received little more than snuffles and grunts from there on in.

All was not lost, however! Apparently, all I needed was to see a lone bicycle loaded with approximately 60 chairs and I’d be reassured that I was in the right place for now. It’s difficult to leave your house in China without seeing something that will stop you in your tracks and question either your eye sight or your grasp on reality.

Vietnam:

My thighs were wrapped around a Vietnamese motorcycle guide a little shorter than me; my helmet comfortably perched atop my cap. I balanced through will power and the fortunately positioned lean-to motor cycle seat. We followed a lady with caged chickens strapped to the back of her bike and I was followed by my travelling companion and the man who had only ten minutes ago asked her to marry him. Evidently, the health and safety demonstration and pep talk about the tour was to involve a helmet deftly plonked on your head, a shake of the hands; a name exchange then a marriage proposal. Unfortunately the chicken transporter was too slow for our easy riders so we zoomed of to the first of our temple visits through a dust filled cloud and a crush of gravel, leaving the chickens happily and perhaps naively clucking to their destination.
Our motorcycle tour of Hue commenced, the slightly warm breeze offering a brief respite from the heat that was already fairly intense. One photo request and surprising grope (I was quite flummoxed when she said ‘beautiful’, gave me a massive hug and allowed her hand to linger a little two long around my chest) later, we were wondering around a most beautiful, almost gothic style temple, happily situated high in the hills and opposite a huge white figure in the forests across the valley. Black stone and sharp edged shadows contrasting a brilliant carpet of vivid green broken only by the glowing white figure of Jesus (at least I thought it was Jesus – I was later told it was Mary). Striking! Occasionally my mind was allowed to wander to hundreds, thousands of years ago when grand rulers and their colourful concubines would survey these hills…my mind wondered to royal ceremony and formality although this briefly lived snippet would soon burst at the excited giggle of the teenage girl or hack of an aged man, the shove for prime photograph position or the unruly selfie stick refocusing your faraway gaze.

Our guides whisked us away for lunch. Four local spring rolls, a bowl full of noodles and a beer costing a total of 3gbp for four people was by far the best food we had eaten in Vietnam so far. Then thirty six temples and bucket loads of sweat later we were deposited back to our hotel to a hearty, toothy ‘welcome’ by the doorman; my Steve McQueen rode off into the 2.30pm afternoon haze. What an amazing day!
On another day, I sat at a fully dressed table next to an impressively well-stocked wine cellar, in a proper wooden, cushioned chair, wide eyed astonishment revealing how the ‘cruise’ which I’d happily expected to be an open roof, open deck, thin dirty mattress affair was in fact a mini Titanic! It was not to be a night under the stars only inches above the water: dark wooden floors and walls were to form the base of our cabin (CABIN!) while pristine white sheets and duvets promised a comfortable, potentially long and worthy sleep. There was air conditioning! A bathroom! Even a small tray containing complimentary water and a glass. This was amazing and a long way from the dhow trip I’d imagined and packed for. Shit! Panic began to ebb closer as I realised I’d packed a hoodie, shorts and pjs: completely inappropriate clothing for a classy cruise dinner. This failing on my part and subsequent mental self flagellation punctuated a mini trip to the beach on the dingy although was really quite short lived. On our return traditional Vietnamese costumes had been placed at the foot of each of our beds – we were saved! I was to be the king and my companion, the queen. That’s the way I saw it anyway and what a way to solve the wa

rdrobe issue – this was becoming dangerously close to being perfect: we ordered Prosecco and sat on the deck in the sunshine passing huge guardian rocks on our way to Hao Long Bay and what promised to be one of the worlds most impressive natural caves.

Vietnam is amazing and I’ve only just scratched the surface. The people are friendly, warm and accepting; the food better when it’s cheap and local; the cities/towns varied and exciting. I would go back there in a heartbeat and fully intend to – there’s still so much to see. There is much more to write, too, but I really have to go and anyway if I told you about the overnight train and cards on the bottom deck; of rum cocktails, friendly Australians, flying cockroaches, gorgeous breakfasts and cut-out cards, I would have nothing to tell you when I get home in THREE WEEKS! I can’t wait.
Incidentally, if anyone needs a house sitter when they’re on their holidays this summer or indeed has a spare room they were willing to let out at a pittance if I promised to cook them a good meal now and again, do please let me know. I’ll be a poorer but happier version of me when I come back this time but I absolutely cannot wait to see all your gorgeous faces.

16^th May 

It started in blurry storm infused drama and ended with a promise of eyebrow raised mischief; an assured tribute!

I sat in an exam invigilation today gazing out of the window at the lightening and noted how the rain, being so heavy and all, blurred my view. Through the merged Monet-esque deep green of the wet trees surrounding the building I watched everything get a little panicky just for a moment. Just for a moment the water in the river started boiling, the clouds huddled together, shoulder to black grey shoulder, growling and rumbling along with the thunder. Then a flash, sharp and bright would pierce through towards the ground as if fiercely stabbing what lay beneath it.

Two boys had their backs to me and were hurriedly typing away at their IGCSE ICT exam. I’d fallen off the wheelie swivel chair that was my invigilator throne and was confused momentarily having landed without dignity upon the floor. I’d misjudged how high I needed to lift my thigh in order to rest the opposite foot beneath it, misbalanced… and simply fell off. Another flash of lightning, rumble of thunder and I shot up. Red faced (although I’ve no idea why seeing as no one had seen the ridiculous self instigated comedic lurch to the floor) and was currently unable to stop that involuntary breath of sharp laughter one tends to blurt at something stupid that they’ve done. I did my best to contain the snorts while my charges continued tap tap tapping away: oblivious. Silently, I grimaced, involuntarily laughed to myself once more, corrected my clothing and commenced walking slowly around the room, hands behind straight back, facial expression fixed and serious: a determined and exemplary professional.

In addition to unnecessarily falling off chairs, today I spent some time with the science department after school. They needed to use up the last of the liquid nitrogen they had for ‘Science Week’. We liquidised air inside balloons, we froze leaves then savagely shattered them like the hulking manly geeks we all are. We tried to make beer ice cubes but gave up and drank the beer instead; we huddled around like the fortunetellers of MacBeth and stared into the smoking polystyrene tub. It’ interesting scary stuff, liquid nitrogen, dangerous, a silent killer if you’re stuck in a lift with it yet despite my seemingly logical suggestion, it is not a means by which you could save yourself if you happened to have been bitten by a snake. I surmised that surely by freezing your arm with Liquid Nitrogen the vemon would be halted in its cursive destruction of your body? Immediate application thus enabling the victim more time to seek the appropriate medical assistance. I thought it rather a clever idea until it was pointed out that a canister of liquid nitrogen is not usually the first thing you’d pack when preparing for a hike in a place where poisonous snakes are lurking and also that by freezing (essentially burning) your arm by pouring liquid nitrogen onto it, you would in fact rather be causing your cells to burst and die. Bang goes that idea then, might as well let the venom run its course. Incidentally, and for your fact seeking gratification (although not solidified fact) the best thing to do with a snake bite is to simply wash your arm. Apparently the poison only goes so far in due to the fact that the snake will stab and run to prevent its being captured. The poison sits mostly at the top. Isn’t that a fascinating thing? Worth a try at least. Remember that the next time you take the dog to Ruislip woods or nip down to the savage warrens of Uxbridge town centre – you never know!

I must admit, something that’s not as much fun as playing with liquid nitrogen is another far to potent expat realisation that working abroad can be tough when you know people at ‘home’ could need you. That sometimes, even if you feel in your gut that you could make people feel better, you simply have to deal with the fact that you decided to move away. I was glad of my silly science geek fest session and of the moment when you realise how funny simply falling off a chair can be; because for a fleeting moment I was all too aware of loss and the implications of having decided to be away. For a moment I felt everything at once – just took a blurry scene and a bruised arse to trigger it.

She was fiery was Betty. Back in the day she drank as much booze as tea (probably more) and smoked like a chimney. Come to think of it, she smoked those colorful cigarettes. I always thought them awfully posh, not just due to the array of smooth elegant colours distracting one from an unselfconscious blatant marketing ploy but because of that gold piece of paper that flapped up as you raised the lid on the box. No pansy cigarette were these, oh no. They were the classy killers that were so cool that they necessitated a slight golden shield to cover them from the distasteful outside world, revealing themselves only to the deserving smoker of choice.

I remembered that when we stayed with aunty Betty, she would let us watch The Rescuers and put drinks on her glass table if we were very careful. I remembered that she would walk us up the little hill to the shops near her to buy some tutt from the hardware shop, every time letting us believe we might not be allowed something this time before relenting and allowing us to buy that ornate thimble, mini screwdriver set or everso useful giraffe shaped ice cube holder. Tea was served properly and food was laid out properly despite the momentary delay in deliverance. I remember the books in her cabinet that she would allow me to leaf through and the couple she let me keep. I promise I’ll read ‘Blitzcat’ and ‘Lorna Doone’, Aunty Bet.

I remember that my aunty Betty, who had been sick for a while, recognised me when I visited last Christmas and I remember feeling like I was something very special because she did. How even without realising, she’d bestowed a gift. I remember sitting with Mandy, waiting for her to get back from wherever she’s been on the ward, her wheelchair being pushed by the unfortunately orderly whose turn it was to suffer the mistempered slanderous accusations she had decided to bestow, and listening to her batter the poor man with a strength of tone that countered her now frail body; I am sure all shoulders on the ward hunched slightly at her approach.

Her strength. Her Fire. The later flashes of sadness she occasionally let slip yet her refusal to allow these to become regret or remorse. Her kindness and her laugh, whether that was accompanied by a raised cigarette and a head thrown back that summer in the garden or a wheeze, cough and a shift in her seat towards the end. The laughter inevitably sprung from something naughty: a sneaked dram of something strong and sharp that the nurse or carer had banned; a rebellious refusal to accept something she didn’t agree with or hearing a story about us doing the same. She was a brilliant lady latterly prone to outrageous accusations, short tempered retorts and misjudged assumptions due to her age and mental deterioration but these aside, she was such a character; such a loving and passionate lady that she was and is quite an inspiration. I shall raise a glass to you, aunty Betty, and remember those stories of racing in the Isle of Mann and of naughty children in your café; of books and tea served properly, of singing along to ‘will you rescueeeeeee meeeeeeeeee’ with you and my sisters; of bad wigs and biscuits and of many other things that will inevitably filter through and turn into stories inspiring full head back laughter.

I did something naughty yesterday and played ‘annoy the commuter’ on the train by blocking the train doors in apparent western naivety to prevent the stampede for just a precious powerful moment – it was fun, you’d be proud!

17^th April 2015

Well that was a busy couple of weeks!
When I think about it, it was an extremely busy couple of weeks. Rather a tempest of celebration, travel and varying degrees of consequential sufferance.

Exhausted yet glad that I’ve lasted nearly a whole week at work, I’m now home, I’ve popped a San Miguel (I had no idea this was an Asian beer), pulled the chord on my desk lamp and I’m ready for writing action!

Somewhat difficult to know where to start though. Do I start with a young nephew launching himself off of a sofa Kung Fu stylie in his freshly opened Chinese pyjamas? Picture him, determined mischief in his eyes, kung fu growl upon his lips and fists clenched ready for battle on impact. He launches, and lands… straight onto my groin – I had been standing but hadn’t anticipated a cunning sweeping attack from the rear by the other similarly Chinese pyjama clad nephew which rendered me collapsed on the floor, an easy target for the one gathering momentum and flying, then landing, from the back of the sofa. Tactically reassessing the situation while I grasped my poor leg, and dramatising even further what was a rather painful experience, I cleverly opted for the counter attack which would exploit my easily accessible advantage: my weight. I belly flopped onto the slightly concerned pair until I felt ready to jump up and engage the appropriate stance while they floundered and gathered the breath so recently knocked from them.

Do I start at a huge wooden table, snug in the corner of a New Zealand drinkary? Tankard in hand, smiling and saying cheers and hello to my soon to be married cousin having only 30 minutes ago been collected from the airport? Minor panic ebbed when I realised that the fact she was unable to remove herself from the wheelchair she was presented to me in was only because so many people had seen her in it that she couldn’t just jump out. The charade was aptly executed until my baggage arrived and we could tear from the airport without acknowledging the scornful gazes of those who may think a wheelchair joyride somewhat inappropriate. If I started there, I’d have to concede that I was still wearing the clothes I wore to Sally’s funeral. I have no idea how long it had been as the travelling entirely threw me. Seeing as time was not a constant and I’d crossed timezones, waited in various airports had red wine and noodles for breakfast (I think. It may have been lunch) feel free to wince, in travel time that could possible have been nearly 48 hours.
Perhaps it would be better to start back there, in England, in a church, seeing Sally’s face grinning at me from a video screen and smiling with her at her ridiculously adorable sense of humour in producing a lip-syncing version of Heaven 17’s Temptation for the ‘opening act’. Although if I start there I am in danger of becoming too morose, of appearing too sad when actually what I am is grateful: grateful to those constants who whether I haven’t seen them for one week or two years always make me laugh.

Perhaps I should start somewhere entirely different? With me wading out to sea, following a nephew far more capable of catching waves than I am but loving every crash of the water and every lurch over swells. I am no surf chick, that much is obvious to even the novice water-treader who observes the board flying into my face or my dramatic paddling at the break only to be left flat, drifting and frankly a little pathetic while others fly past. Yes, perhaps here, in the ocean that I have missed greatly. Or maybe as I follow another cousin up a hill, a vast and somewhat challenging hill where I clearly struggle but attempt to maintain conversation. I see that the summit is not too far, that the gasping and burning will only last another few moments and notice that my kindly cousin has ceased attempting to draw me in to conversation at the subtle realisation that I am unable to walk and talk simultaneously! Although if I started there I would have to admit that when I reached the summit, when I took that breath, lifted my head and looked, a feeling rushed through me that was more than just appreciation for a pretty view. It was a released yet a drawing and sudden sadness that stung my eyes and made my stomach drop – not because of the cheeseburger wrapper that stumbled past in the light breeze but something else. Why is it that everything seems so profound when emotionally exhausted and grunting like a 57 year old man who has spent his life smoking while working in an aspesdos lined factory, enjoying sausage and egg McMuffins for breakfast every day for the last 30 years. Perhaps she saw it on my face, perhaps she didn’t, but my clever lady proceeded to inform me that we were just about to reach a popular dogging destination and that the reason that she knew this was not due to her own participation in such activities (honestly) but the incidental interest of a colleague of hers who had not known what dogging was and subsequent internet investigations where the spot in which I was about to stand was highlighted as a particular favourite – she’s a helpful friend to those unfit and uninformed so she is.
Or perhaps I should go back to eating meatballs with my sisters and mum who surprised me at the airport in the UK. The meatballs were gorgeous and the rice only partially cooked (my sister’s excitement at having us all together being blamed for the resulting potentially poisonous starch rather than her inability to cook rice) which I ate it all the same, enjoying watching my nephew don the Chinese dress I’d bought for Emmie while he poured imaginary tea from the wedding present I was yet to deliver to New Zealand.
A wedding may be a more appropriate place to start? A wedding where I frequently had to tell myself not to do anything wrong as we had been invited onto Mauri land for a unique and splendid ceremony. A wedding where I only clashed heads a couple of times when performing the hongi which in my uncoordinated and nervously excitable way was a superb result considering I had to perform at least twenty such manoeuvres.
Although back in Acton might be a good place to start? Wine in a good ‘ole west London pub with some of my bestest and oldest who forgave my overindulgence and entirely unexpected blowout, tolerating my drunken ramblings and proclamations in entirely good humour – even the 22 year old lads I cornered to inform them that they should read more if they were ever to sound even partially intelligent and the man who I grasped urgently and told that he had magic eyes were surprisingly encouraging. Oh, the shame! Oh, the hangover. And oh, the wreck, snuggled up with my sister the next day awaiting the arrival of the two mini monsters (although one no longer so mini and one with a personality large enough to inspire awed fear in any giant who happened upon her) with a pizza and Lucozade.

Perhaps I should start with it all and perhaps I have. Not one moment of this trip will I forget. It was one of the most beautiful, knackering, expensive (whoops – and yes, I got a telling off – thanks Val), inspiring, difficult, reassuring, fun, affirming trips I’ve had to date and I’ll do my best to write a few tales in the coming week. For now, I shall say all of the above plus the obvious: that there was much red wine consumed (far too much), two wheelchair rides, much laughter (usually at my expense) and tonnes of nephew and niece squidges (they had little choice in the matter); a few tears although many, many more laughs then a little more red wine and some drum and bass dancing (which I think impressed the New Zealand folk) before saying fond farewells and jumping once more onto a plane, destination: Shanghai and home for the time being.

It was an awesome trip (and I mean that in the proper way not the slightly watered down version so happily adopted by the kindly NZ folk. You know, those who would without questioning scale be as likely to describe having mail passed to them from the postman in the morning or a slice of bread presented to them for breakfast as ‘awesome’, as they would proclaim when confronted with Niagra Falls or gasp while watching me perform a triple heart bypass on a flailing seal and saving the life of the said seal or whisper gazing mezmerised as a five year old Spanish speaking toddler recites King Lear word for word in English while also changing voices to suit characters. Be not affronted, my excitable friends, I am merely a horrid, heartless brit). And I did have a truely awesome time. x

23^rd March 2015

Sometimes I feel like I have found my place in Shanghai and it surprises me that I feel settled. I don’t feel scared or unsafe, I haven’t at all really; I don’t miss too many ‘things’ (except and oven and a bath); I don’t crave culture and stimulation, it’s all here – when I’m feeling adventurous enough to seek it out. This weekend I took a lickle stroll down to the ‘fake market’ which involved crossing a lovely (looking) river, pink blossom and greenery either side, Starbucks happily and conveniently situated at its banks; the sunshine was out and I’d discovered a whole new side to my ‘hood’ that I’d not known about before. What seemed a million miles from the crazed rallying of the impatient drivers on overcrowded roads was a little beblossomed haven in reality only 20 minutes walk from my house.

I pottered around the fake market for a while, entertaining myself by creating a mental list of essential things I would buy once I get paid then had a huge lunch that cost around a pound. While my dexterous friend selected and ate with delicacy and style, I appeared quite the opposite. Sometimes I’m bloody good with chopsticks, able to identify an individual morsel of food which looks particularly tasty and snapping it up smooth as you like, a proper professional – yeah, almost local! Other times, however, I’ll look like a complete plonker, twisting chopsticks and fingers in the wrong direction and looking a little dim-witted as the shoulders decide to get involved in order to angle the body more efficiently to scoop, select and deliver, yet ultimately just results in me looking like a hungry hunch back of Notridame (sound effects and all), chopsticks and fingers at all angles, grunting while attempting to pick up a fried dumpling. Yesterday was one such day. The food I successfully managed to consume was, however, delicious (I suppose smaller portions could be a good idea when considering my recent weight gain): I’ll visit again when the shame has died down.

So, in reality, it’s not been too difficult to be here – certain recent events aside. Bearing that in mind, I have created a little list of things it’s taking a while to get used to in China:
-Old ladies in tights and leather hot-pants (although the thought of what might happen as the weather improves is slightly more frightening).
-People weeing in the street
-Panic rushing on to the train involving hefty shoves and general disregard for politeness and common sense. However, having been informed of the ‘swimming technique’, I am now rather more successful at disembarking without the inevitable subsequent attack of rage. You simply extend your arms straight out in front of you, wrist to wrist then as the crazed mob stare into the carriage in anticipation of bolting before you’ve had a chance to leave, you ready yourself. The doors open, you smile, a graceful and elegant swimmer and simultaneously step forward while slowly opening your arms wide in a smooth breast stroke motion until you have scooped them all aside and you can step easily through. Granted, it can be difficult to allay the snarling public keen to race to that seat or simply to a standing position they would have achieved whether they stepped delicately or thundered to with dreaded determination, but seeing as your elbows are already up, there’s always option 2.
-Frickin’ deadly silent mopeds being driven on the pavement; I fear for my Achilles almost every day
-Concern over whether the food I am buying is chemically enhanced and some clever scientist somewhere is rubbing his hands together in glee knowing that he created a strawberry redder, sweeter and significantly larger than the average strawberry out of a potato
-Burping, spitting, hawking (even worse than the actual spitting) and farting in public – not me you understand…
-The fact that learning Mandarin is really effing hard.
-The texture of sweet dumplings. I am really sorry but I just cannot escape the impression that snot must be a similar consistency – just can’t cope with that! Sorry to be disgusting but there it is.

Right so there are just a few things to mull over, roll around the tongue and savour. I’ll keep you posted and say hello again by the end of the week.

Lots and lots of love as always.
Kerry x

8^th May 2015 

 Poised at the bar the bemused looking group of Chinese friends winced and observed the outrageous ‘dancing’ currently taking place between tables  When one young lady threw caution to the wind and jumped down to join us, my stride was momentarily broken, I feared I might be in trouble.

I also knew, however, that I must maintain the dynamism; that I must continue to pout, wiggle, strut and jump around in a strange hybrid dance incorporating salsa, tango and Tigger style bouncing as I had been executing energetically for approximately 20 minutes now. The lady was clearly impressed at these strange alien folk who looked so confident in their jerking and bobbing that this must be a dance style worth imitating. Perhaps some doubt showed in my face as I flung the dear creature across our recently constructed dance floor as it was shortly after that launch that she returned to her seat at the bar, and the realisation occurred that we were the only ones dancing; that the area we had so aptly selected was in fact just standing room at the bar, not a dance floor; that the bar crowd was thinning… Then a dance version of Thriller came on and the Zombie hands came out!
I was sick in the morning. Such was the cumulative consequence of a day’s worth of drinking and ridiculous jump dancing. Patchy memories winced into my throbbing head. We drank bubbles on a rooftop bar. We drank fruit beer outside a street bar in the French Concession. We moved across the road and drank red wine and ate spicy pizza in another bar in the French Concession. We moved a few bars down and were encouraged to try Long Island Iced Teas. Then, some of us decided it would be a marvelous idea to go and dance somewhere. I have declined to view the proffered photographic evidence of this as the flash backs are far too frequent this morning, and far to raw.
Once the hangover receeded just a tad, we went to get our nails done. I opted for black.
Nearly a week since that and I’m feeling much more sprightly. I weighed myself today and have decided that the reason why I have gained a few pounds is quite obvious and is easily explained when due consideration is given to the vast amounts of exercise in which I have been partaking: I have simply built muscle and I shall fall back down again next week when I opt for evenings on the sofa with a box set. There has been far too much cycling this week, my bicycle still punishing me by offering relentless slightly flat tyres and occasionally skipping gears. I can’t help but feel I am not yet forgiven.

I do admit, however, that I rather enjoy the cycling around. It’s funny, sometimes you get looks from people and you think they’re unfriendly or even hostile. I assume, as the outsider, the invader, the stranger who simply cannot pick up the language, that most would resent my presence. Further contemplation, however, lead me to decide on a plan of sorts. I decided to simply smile at everyone I see. And the results if this detailed and well formulated social experiment has lead me to believe that people are the same as at home; if you smile, if you say hi, if you acknowledge them, they will in turn say hello back – accurately reinforced but collated data suggesting that 8.5 times out of 10 a positive response is received. Whether the greeting be delivered through thin lips, brown teeth and a dangling cigarette or some funky young chick in 3inch pink platform Nikes (who knew they made them?), it is at once reassuring on a tough ‘China Day’, pleasantly welcoming and sometimes a little surprising.
Anyway, still on my bike and the other day I thought I’d put my money where my mouth is and test out that weird Chinese crazy driving synchronicity theory I formulated recently (it involves fish and multidimensional group understanding). I wondered if it also worked on pedestrians and cyclists. Then the perfect opportunity appeared: as I hurtled down the far side of a bridge enjoying the wind, momentary pedaling release and subsequent muscle ache subsidence, I saw that at the bottom of this hill were four ladies walking. Enjoying a pleasant afternoon stroll, it was probably too early for them to have spotted me. But I had spotted them and unbeknownst they were about to become test patients. If I continue at my current speed – thus enjoying the lovely breeze for that moment longer – would they ultimately adjust their walking positions to allow me through in the same way that the cars just seem to blend in with each other? I admit, it took rather a lot of commitment to the cause for me to resist pulling the brake but resist I did and then, miraculously, the woman moved. Now this may seem obvious to you but for me, in context, it was quite the revelation and since that moment I’ve been experimenting every time I’ve ridden. The only near miss I’ve had was with a policeman who blew his whistle at me and shook his big stick even when I pointed out the lights were green! Admittedly, it seems I was looking at the incorrect set of lights and the ones which actually dictated when cyclists could proceed were not the ones at which I was vehemently gesticulating.
Wednesday, I visited a street market after work. Various tins, cigarette posters, little wooden stools and vintage suitcases were piled on stalls with traders who all promised a ‘cheap, very cheap price’. It was amazing, so many gorgeous antiques mixed up with ceramic Mao in a dressing gown, a waving Mao in a pink suit, posters, ashtrays and playing cards of Mao positioned delicately adjacent to a lovely packet of ‘Young Chinese Girls in Next to Nothing’ playing cards, a veritable banquet of interesting and random objects. I was reminded that I know next to nothing about the political structure of my current home and have decided to rectify this within the next two weeks. It’s also quite interesting to note that this market, this place of eclecticism and tradition mixed with the tack of modern mass production is going to close in two weeks. It’s disappointing yet I resist the sentimental regret that descends when one sees a beautiful thing destroyed. I can’t get upset about the closure of this buzzing little cacophony of eccentricity at or the demolition site that is adjacent to it and the knowledge that these windows, stalls and gorgeous buildings are soon to disappear. I can’t get upset about it because I do not know what they are being cleared for and really regardless of whether they are being smashed up to make way for new homes or a spankingly clean uber modern mall, I cannot be angry – it would be wrong to flaunt an opinion when I do not understand whether this is a tragic loss of traditional building or a necessary demolition of dangerous constructions. Because like much of what I see every day, I am thinking with the sight of an English girl not a Chinese one – I keep having to remind myself of that.
Other than pondering this fairly obvious point, recently I have been obsessing. Obsessing about the fact that much of the alcohol here is actually fake. After the market, we visited a lovely French bar where I convinced myself I’d actually put away a glass of antifreeze. We polished them off – save the wastage – and opted for a nice Chablis after that just to be on the safe side. I will be watching myself from now on though, the hangover on antifreeze is terrible!
So here I sit, in my friend’s classroom, a glass (plastic cup) of red beside me readying for the inevitable humiliation that is the school ‘pub’ quiz. There’s a Politics round. There’s a Geography round. There’s a round on China. I’m buggered! I should have avoided this and gone to the wet market near home to watch the lobsters escape their tubs.

26^th March 2015 

Two things made me happy this morning:

1) A tracksuit clad group of old folk were out in the sunshine this morning kicking their fluorescent cluster of feathers up and down for the morning exercise they commit to every day. I watched them for a bit, astounded at how good their responses were. Seriously, forward flicks, instep kicks and behind the back tricks – not one of them was below 50; I’d go so far as to say that some were significantly older than that. Their reflexes were amazing and put me to shame when I considered that already this morning I tripped over my front door step (the very same one I walk over most mornings and evenings with no consequence), dropped my phone and narrowly missed a death scooter because I was examining the afore mentioned dropped and thankfully not cracked handset – I guess I can’t blame the deadly silent death-scooter driver this time.

I love how in China, you can drive/walk past a random piece of space, derelict building or beautifully managed park and there will be a group or individual practicing Tai Chi, feather kicking, Kung Fu, random arm flinging, Chinese dancing, anything and everything! They know how to use space and have no more hesitation about lunging (literally) past you in the street than they would simply strolling by.

2) That the street sweepers use brooms entirely made from twigs. Well, I say entirely but actually that’s not strictly true. The handle is a normal handle, I think, but the ‘brush’ is constructed from twigs and sticks. Environmentally friendly, entirely functional, renewable, classic and actually quite enjoyable to listen to. I reckon, and I’ve given this considerable thought, that we should adopt those in the UK. Seriously, it would be so much more fun than using one of those cold, hard, health and safety awarded brooms. Nah, you want a broom that can tell a story, a broom with personality; a naughty broom that is unique, not uniform; one that will lose a rebellious twig now and again but will take pride in scooping up their old mates the leaves and enjoy having a hearty reunion.

A twig broom is not going to take any messing from an anarchic piece of chewing gum or pathetically stroppy wet piece of paper. Absolutely not! No bending of plastic bristles uselessly, desperately flexing atop the old receipt undeserving of such attention shall occur with a twig brush.

Imagine how many more people would want to sweep if they knew they could use twig brushes! Kids would get involved, the weak and feeble could have a go. Worth some thought, I think.