She went to Shanghai

Lady Danger! For all of 20 minutes…

One difference between Dubai and Shanghai: glitter and sparkles

15^th March 2015 Shanghai

I must say, it surely is a pleasant sensation to wake up on a Sunday morning with a fresh head. Not tentatively opening one’s eyes and gradually feeling the eyelashes to ascertain whether the makeup had been removed, I was indeed wearing my pyjamas and I had most definitely brushed my teeth. Splendid.

Last night, school hosted the Shanghai Symphony Orchestra for a Vivaldi concert which left me both awe inspired and super furious with selfish mothers who allowed their jack-in-the-box kids to break the stupor I was so happy to be led into by the music. It was my intention to slink in at the back of the theatre and hide to soak up the performance; I was concerned that too much of a story, too much of a lingering note would render me a tear-streaked wreck after this week but it was not to be, I was surrounded. Perhaps I should be grateful to the flashing trainers, exaggerated whispers (when we were lucky) and relentless movement of the younger folk for not allowing me to indulge myself. Still, a swift arm yank to the back of the theatre, gags and super glue did cross my mind several times as I lamented and pined for the chaos free audiences of Covent Garden or Embankment.

The previous evening had been somewhat different. Our staff party took place in a plush 36th floor bar which boasted bright, impressive views of the city. Talk buzzed for two weeks prior to the event, ‘what will you wear?’, ‘it’s quite a posh bar’ ‘dresses and beautiful earrings all the way.’ Ooh, thought I, a chance to pretty up and drink champagne – my own private celebration cheers being the intended subplot for the evening. Unfortunately, being that I have gained rather a lot of weight in drink and Pringles of late, dressing was not altogether confidence inspiring: nothing really fit me until I found my fabulous blue trousers and sparkly butterfly top. Finished with a generous spread of ‘Lady Danger’ lipstick –oh yes – I was ready. I arrived in my beautiful cape of beautifulness, Lady Danger first, followed by my dazzling butterfly and pink zipped back, it occurred to me after about 27 seconds that I may stick out somewhat. Suddenly aware of the fact that I had to make a decision as to whether I was a drag queen esque, painted lady in a very non-drag-queen-esque crowd, or simply a colourful, eccentric little figure skater creature, I realised that all of the gorgeous people around me were wearing – albeit it wearing it well – a sophisticated blend of blacks, creams, and various other dark colours. I stood, a little shaken, garish or sparkling in comparison and considered my options.

At first I took in the clear availability of ‘champagne’. Good. Then I scanned the room, took in the view, saw that while the food table was high, it was not too high – I could aim for that, reach up, select a burger and hide there a while. I would not need to talk to anyone who might deem me ghastly. I thought of Sally. I thought of what she would tell me what to do and almost felt the look she gave me and the ‘don’t be ridiculous’ sentiment rang true. With her firm, unwavering hand at my back I entered the room with a lurch and reached for a glass.
And what splendid fun I had! That slightly larger than I would like it to be but nevertheless still able to swing (low) to the music electric-blue clad bottom had a good old shake and by the end of the night even if some thought me somewhat of a cartoon character, I had enjoyed a sparkling evening!
Other than building furniture in my pyjamas and watching cowboy movies, that was my weekend so far and it’s only Sunday morning! Oh, I do have to report a plummet in my current rugby table position. Damn and blast the fact that I was too late with my team changes!

Sunshine in fruit gums

One of the things that I have found really quite challenging in being so far away from home is the ever present guilt at not being there. It’s the little things like helping family with childcare or ‘knowing’, perhaps more apt, ‘thinking’ that you can make a difference if only you were there.

Sometimes, however, sometimes you must admit that you are powerless – some things you just can’t help with or change. Sometimes it just takes a phone call and suddenly everything changes.

11^th March – The Week that Sally Died

It’s been a while, a week at least, and I am sorry that work has kept me from my blog. Although in other ways I am glad. Work has been creative, adventurous, colourful and inspiring; all the things that my good friend Sally-Ann Hitchcock was. I’m afraid that this one will be a little sad but I hope a fitting tribute to a person that truly was, in every way, simply sunshine. She said she loved reading my blogs, that they made her laugh and under no circumstances was I to stop… So:

When I left for Dubai nearly six years ago now, I stood in the queue at the Emirates desk, eyes aching from saying goodbye; concern weighing in the pit of my stomach that the baggage I was carrying was vastly overweight, and a strange lightness in my head at the prospect that I knew not what Dubai was like. Or even whether the people were more likely to stone me than greet me. Such pondering aside, I happened to notice a couple, heads bent together they whispered and nodded towards me. I assumed they had noticed the sadness and trepidation that was clearly displayed on my face and were merely kind hearted folk concerned for that short, sticky faced person in the queue behind them. John and Valerie Hitchcock were shushed by their embarrassed daughter and reinstated standing in order, naughty pair!
Ironically, although my assumption was a tad offset, I was correct that this mischievous two were talking about me. They had in fact suggested to Sally that I was probably going to the same place as her to teach: a preposterous suggestion! Again they were shushed! I even now imagine an apologetic glance in my direction. Distracted now by the fact that the lady at the check-in counter paid no heed to my tears or pleading, my case was deemed far too heavy and a trip to another counter meant that I quite forgot these people who had pointed me out in the queue.
My journey was further complicated by the fact that the TV in my seat was broken. I would have to move: brilliant, just frickin’ brilliant! However, this seat change, this random fated adaption to my already bumpy plan, was to be one that I will always be grateful for. Smiling politely at the lady beside me, I prayed she wasn’t a talker: I was far to intent on indulging my sadness at having just left my family and friends in London to talk to a stranger. I might even make myself feel even worse by watching a sad movie and drinking gin.

She was a talker. Oh she was. And so, it would seem, was I.

‘So, are you going on holiday?’
‘No’, I’m moving here to work. You?’
‘Oh, me too!’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a teacher’
‘Oh, me too!’
A succession of ‘me too’s and ‘no way’s later and we had established that not only were we both moving to Dubai to teach but that we were heading for the same school, the same subject and the same accommodation. Happy coincidence! It was too much to bear! Bugger the gin, bugger the sad movie, bring out the champagne and let’s get this Dubai gig started. And we did.
My first night in Dubai was spent atop a plastic coated sofa in an otherwise empty flat drinking champagne with Sally-Ann Hitchcock. Many more bottles, a car share, an adventure filled three years and subsequent London trips later, I considered, and still do, Sally to be one of the best people I have ever met. I thank the stars for putting me next to her on that flight and thank her, as one of them now, for being her; for all of the things that it will take too long to mention here but that I will always treasure.
I used to inwardly scorn those who used Facebook as a means to talk about the death of loved ones, thinking that it was not the right platform and that it was self-indulgent and unnecessary. I’m sorry for that now. Sally used Facebook all the way through her sickness and as such kept those who loved her informed and entertained right up until her last few days. People should read her blog and be inspired as we all have been by such a courageous lady whom I admire and who made me laugh always.

I don’t want anyone at home to worry about me over here. I am fine, there are people here who worked with Sally in Dubai and will take good care of me. One old colleague has already accidentally walked into a glass wall which has brightened my day wonderfully.
I won’t pretend that there was not something far more significant in watching the sunrise this morning or that the kids singing downstairs sent my heart plummeting and heavy tears leak. I will not pretend that I was not distracted when I shampooed my hair three times this morning because I was. I will not pretend that the thought of coming back to London and not seeing our Sally is something that I am not quite ready to face yet. But I will make sure that when my hair is uber silky and flying all over the place, Sally’s lighthearted sunny personality will be in my mind, her probably laughing. And, I will make sure that at work today when we have acting, creating, drawing and singing, those things that Sally loved, I will enjoy them and celebrate them all with extra verve.
A visitor to work brought me some Fruit Gums from the UK this week. A perfect tribute today would be to drink a really expensive bottle of Champagne in Sally’s honour. As being plastered, singing and tabletop dancing in school would obviously be highly inappropriate, I shall have my Fruit Gums instead and with every sweet, colourful, fruity little mouthful, I’ll do a cheers to you, Sal. I love you and I’ll miss you.
I think I’ll start with a green one.

Disappointing

27^th February

I supposed it’s not a bad thing to be knocked back down to earth from time to time. When I was unsuccessful in an application this week, I was reminded of the time I stood, to my mind, straight, smart, attentive, answering the grueling questions delivered between stacked shelves of Anything Goes in Ruislip Manor. Beside the rubbers shaped like pink dogs and the magic paint colouring books I did my best to be enthusiastic and knowledgeable about different sizes of batteries. On reflection, I probably looked like Marylin Manson’s long lost daughter all purple spiky hair, DMs and Heather Shimmer lipstick who was more likely to eat the afore mentioned batteries than effectively recommend the correct one for your hand held plastic fan, Mrs Brown… but we do stock some rather lovely handkerchiefs which you might find useful to mop the droplets from your brow while deliberating.

I didn’t get that job either.

Still there’s nothing like a wee blonde potato loving piss taking old chum to cheer ones mood. Bugger it. Why not? I booked a flight to Hong Kong for tomorrow. Running away because I’m pissed off? Yep! Can’t wait. Geraghty

Temples & IceCream

Thursday 19th February

As I lingered at the back of the temple, desperate not to do anything wrong or get in the way, the family set about preparing offerings to Buddha. Plastic red bowls were filled to the brim with fruit mainly although other offerings were also made – not sacrificial white dressed virgins, you understand: simple food stuffs and the like. It was cold, really bloody cold. The cold where your fingertips feel like they’ve tightened beneath skin that’s too small. But if Chinese Granny could function, so could this pale, determined little westerner – although I do maintain that with her pottering around offering prayers and fruit, she was in actual fact exercising. I suppose at that age, one doesn’t have to don lycra and jump around to keep the joints working? A simple back and forth to the table in front of a large golden budda would suffice if attempted at a reasonable speed.
All the while, the monks continued chanting occasionally, delicately, stroking the wooden drums, one of which incidentally looked like a huge wooden frog. It really was quite magical, a constant melody, punctuated with well-placed bass and a hustle of family tooing and froing offering a persistent if not fragmented voice. My own contribution, the odd shuffle out of someone’s way!

The monks wore yellow and orange, I, after Chinese Granny stopped the shuffling, glanced fleetingly at my attire frowned, disappeared then reappeared with a garment clutched in her hands, wore the rather fetching brown dressing gown like creation which so many of you appreciated in my pictures. Most aware of the fact that while granny was dressing me – yep, I had a little trouble with the ties, my host’s cousins were enjoying a good hearted giggle at my expense. Luckily, and had I not been in a temple I’m not sure I would have stopped myself, I checked myself in time so as to avoid the little two fingered salute that would have resulted in any other situation! You see, I was behaving and I would do nothing wrong in this temple. I actually congratulated myself that I didn’t swear, I really did. No eye contact, only a brief grunt later, granny had finished her chore of dressing the 35 year old and led the rest of the family to kneel at the cushions while I lingered at the back. This brief sanctity lasted until first granny’s gaze then all the family heads turned to seek me from the shadows – looks like I’m joining in then.
SO as far as religious ceremonies go, I’m alright; I can sing along at the hymns, look attentive, stand when necessary, adopt a pious persona… yet sheer panic set in when after the multiple knee bends, head drops and bows ceased, all stood to follow one of the monks around to the front of the temple. In front of the budda we faced another cushion, a single one. Were we all to offer individual prayers? I followed my friend, desperately trying to peek round to see what I should do, knowing that this could be potentially disastrous. Ah, right! Got it. It’s like the cracker and wine moment at church, good perhaps a little vino will warm the body a tad, hopefully the finger tips first. I must have been a smidge slow as a felt a none too gentle shove in my back when it was my turn. I had been trying to offer some personal space to the person in front but Granny, whether through friendly encouragement or impatient annoyance felt this was not necessary!

It wasn’t bread and it wasn’t wine (dammit). What the monk handed me was a small wooden stick which I assumed represented a prayer. I was to offer this stick to the monumentous gold budda aloft in front of me before sticking into the ash in a pot. I’m proud to say I said a little ‘hello’ to budda, thanked him for his hospitality and asked him to look after my family, if it wasn’t too much trouble. All went well despite a little trip on the way up from the cushion: the dressing gown was too long and my joints stiff from the cold – they were giggling again. No fingers! Stand down, stand down!
Two hours later, after several single file laps of the temple; after more kneeling and sticking in of sticks, after more bowing and ‘praying’ – I was actually having a private little chat with budda. It may have appeared a monologue but I assumed budda could hear and deemed that we were getting along famously – no bug had bitten me, no thunderbolt clapped me or mysterious crack in the floor tripped me so I saw no reason why he might consider my mumblings an annoyance.

The ceremony ended and the last heavy beat on the drum sounded, all was silent and the main monk man sang the list of names granny had provided for blessing. It included my name and I felt truly very honoured – even though I had not recognised it. It was time to burn the beautifully written prayers, scribed onto thin paper that granny had been producing for her family all year. She’d done one for me too – very humbling.

We left after a while, five of us squashed in the back of cousin Ting’s Mercedes to retire for a midmorning nap before lunch. I’m not sure if this is clear through the blogs but writing retrospectively it seems as if most if the time, what I did in Fenghua was eat with the family in various houses around various glass topped round tables. These meals were both painful and pleasurable. I wondered at how brave I was at experimenting with food. Could I actually pick up that raw, cold crab and suck out the innards, crunching on claws to remove the juice? As one of my neighbours at the table ground down a crab claw and slurped, I decided not.

Socially though, dinner that day was far more comfortable. People seemed less awkward and obliged to talk to me and whilst frequent ‘cheers’ rang around the table, I was included and welcomed although not under pressure. I’m not sure how it happened but I did communicate, I laughed both at myself and at the jokes I didn’t but did understand: it became fun.
Dinner over and a brief sojourn enjoyed in the garden, it was decided pudding was next. Buggerations! A fairly stressful and unsuccessful trip to a local supermarket left me without any ingredients I could use to make my initial planned Eton Mess or baked apple crumble. I was at a loss and grabbed the few things I recognised – I would attempt and fail (after half an hour whisking egg whites to produce flat gloopy swamp like creation rather than ‘soft peaks’ of white) to make meringues.

Think, Kerrence, think! You’re wearing an apron, you must be able to create something!

I set my able assistant to whipping up some cream. I rummaged around the cupboard for an aptly shaped spoon. I stole the mini soup bowls from the table (magically replaced after the lunch feast) and I created a marvel. A perfectly rounded ball of strawberry Hargen Daaz played anchor to a smaller, flatter scoop of vanilla ice cream – also Haagen Daaz. Opposite this little bundle of joy was dolloped a spoon full of whipped cream. Atop this cream was expertly and artfully placed slithers of carefully sliced snickers bars – adding both texture and variation, I thought. I had created a masterpiece and stood back to admire my work.

You’d think this creation was the best thing anyone’s ever made! My hosts were delighted and so was I! I refreshed bowls, nodded when they nodded, smiled (the conquering chef) and pretended I didn’t understand when the intimation was that I had made the Ice Cream myself! I’ll let them believe that!

Racing cars and making dumplings

Wednesday 18th Feb – still Chinese New Year and I’m still in Fenghua
Breakfast was not reheated pork and cold prawns but sweet noodles. As I slurped my way through that small soup bowl of sugary sweet noodles, I couldn’t help but think that this was intrinsically wrong. Sweet…noodles…perhaps the prawns would have been a better option?

My morning involved sitting in the garden with my host’s family drinking orange juice, including the peel, which was strangely quite enjoyable. My young friend and self-appointed guardian decided it was vital to give me an extensive tour of the back garden (cut out of the small mountain next to the property). It was a lovely garden and as my guide delicately gestured to the left and to the right with the hand action and grace of a ballroom dancer five times his age, I was treated to the perfect view, an entire juxtaposition of buildings and country which allowed for green sanctuary within the not too distant cosmos of the tall city hubbub.

After touring a while, my friend and I had a break and a sunbathe, my hands resting beneath my head – as I was instructed – and feet outstretched: most refreshing! We returned to the grown up table where he moved his chair next to mine. Brows furrowed on his forehead and the adult conversation did not last too long until he, not content at hiding my eyes with his hands and eyebrow raising manically to gain my attention, decided a tour of the house was also in order. Slippers were arranged for me (much to the amazement of his family), the direction pointed out and the tour commenced. Refusal whether politely proffered or adamantly stated was not to be tolerated and thus I was graciously shown about the house, pausing for a little longer at the play room than any of the others – we raced cars awhile.

Much of the day was violently punctuated with the panic stricken sinking feeling that tomorrow I was going to have to cook; in a kitchen that was not mine, on hobs that I was sharing, without an oven, having purchased the ingredients from a local Chinese supermarket where pictures on packages only proved to confuse even further and most of the produce was still alive! I was panicking majorly – as many of you will know, if I take something on, I take it on properly and I will complete it properly. Given the mammoth task before me, I wasn’t sure I could cope with myself, let alone the completion of my cooking challenge.

The rest of the day yielded much food consumption and many attempts at conversation which I struggled with – I was worried that my presence was becoming a difficulty until the feast this evening. We left the family home and ventured into a ballroomish hall; we ate a meal with even more family members and we drank, nodded and smiled through. I said Happy New Year and ‘ganbei-ed’ with the rest of them until I actually felt part of the family. Perhaps it was the protective way that they would glance over if a stranger approached or the way that parents would come to make their child say ‘hello’ in English, delighted when I smiled heartily and said hello back. I was at once an awkward shrinking sibling and a tool on to which basic English could be practiced but I was there and not planning the escape I had considered only hours before.

On returning to the house, I was sat in a chair and asked if I would like to make dumplings with my Chinese nan. Obviously, yes! Then low and behold if we did not laugh. Chinese nan is smashing and funny and a little bit scary but we seemed rather unified in that cold and funtioning living room. While the rest of the family pottered around or received red envelopes via wechat, Chinese Nan and I, in our cardigan clad gang of two, rolled, squidged and laughed our way to a full try of dumplings. I was chastised when I did it wrong, made to repeat then praised and became the winner of a precisely bestowed nod of approval when particularly noteworthy dumplings were produced.

I believe that it was potentially the skill I so evidently displayed that may have inspired C.N. to invite me to join her and the entire family at the temple the following morning – it was a tradition she, the matriarch, enforced every year and this year I was the special guest!

The morning started at 4.30am. I layered up. Stealthily, as if we were dawn raiders of some strange forgotten land, we piled in the car and as we drove silently. I reflected that I was with three generations of women from this Chinese family, driving in the dark to the ceremony only attended once a year. I would hide at the back, I would stand outside, I would not, I would NOT do anything stupid…

As we arrived, the corners of the temple sharp and dark against a darker sky, the monks had already started chanting.

Prawns & personality dissection before 8am

Wednesday 18th Feb

When one has plenty of time to consider how they got themselves into a specific situation, such contemplation ultimately culminates in some sort of new conclusion regarding ones personality – for me it does, anyway. This morning, as I shivered, slightly dehydrated anxiously awaiting the household to stir, I decided that I take things far too literally. This revelation may surprise those of you who know me of course… or maybe not?

Spontaneity is a marvellous thing, one in which I delight mainly as it removes responsibility for all decision making from me. However, I also appreciate a well formulated plan when circumstances require a well formulated plan. It would seem, however, that middle ground and vagueness is where I become somewhat unstuck.

Of course, I realised this after a rather to literal interpretation of my host’s morning routine. When roused at 7am by my carefully placed alarm clock, I made sure I was presentable and the room left tidy by 8am. You see, my friend had mentioned that she usually gets up around 8. Therefore, I made sure I was ready by that precise time so as to avoid any possible perception that I was a lazy guest. Downstairs, I sat by myself, freezing & carefully positioned within a strip of sunlight bursting through the net curtain. Concerned at the fact I did not know where any water was for an hour – I was avoiding the kitchen due to the duck hanging by its neck and various other undecipherables dotted all over the place; one quick scout of the area immediately accessible from the safety of the lounge left me beverageless. I tried fruitlessly to become absorbed by the book open in my hand. Scared stiff that the family would rise before my friend, I quashed the idea of coughing really loudly to try and wake her in case I accidentally woke up my new Chinese nan and had to try to communicate with those still and penetrating eyes.

Little dishes were still on the table from my inaugural dinner and the food left out. My immediate concern over the apparent lack of cling film or Tupperware was momentarily pacified by the thought that actually, it’s so bloody cold, no parasite would survive anyway. However, as the pork sat within it’s solidified fat; prawns rested atop each other, their furry little moustaches twitching in the through breeze, it also dawned on me that this might be breakfast.

Around the dinner table

Still Tuesday 17th February – Fenghua

I am compelled to admit it, by the time the train arrived at the destination station I was really quite scared. Weirdly, and fitting for the frightened traveler, the station closed up as soon as we had all disembarked this, the last train. Everyone scuttled off in family cars; on foot, arm resting on a long missed friend’s shoulder; by bicycle, by elephant… However they left, the point is that they left and I remained. Alone. In the dark. I remained. Well, I say alone but as the lights were switched off behind me and the shutters brought down, a man emerged. An animated man, he was smoking what I would guess as his 57th cigarette of the day judging by the colour of his hands and teeth. He was an amiable sort of chap who seemed awfully keen to whisk me away in his car. I shook my head, clearly intimating that this was not going to happen and was busy pretending to strangle myself as a possible explanation as to why when my host pulled up, beeped and frowned, bemused. I shook hands with the stranger thankfully still in the dark as to whether he would have been my gracious host or cold hearted murderer.

Bumbling and fussing we arrived and I entered the family home. I was nervous and continued to bumble as I dumped my gifts on a wide eyed grandma. A very nice bottle of Rioja, packet of McVities digestives and pot of pear drops seemed so ideal when I was in the supermarket selecting appropriate gifts yesterday. Now, however…

The family sat, uncles, wives, children around a round table atop which was a large movable glass circle housing various dishes. Uncle ‘head chef’ emerged, professional in his apron, from the kitchen holding still another dish and would continue to do so throughout the meal until he finished, drank pretty much a whole kettle of rice wine and challenged me to a ‘cook off’ – more on that later. I was tense but my saviour was to be a six year old boy. You need not comprehend the language to understand that when presented with a ball of green thickened gloopy slime which when squished through netting looks rather like a hormonal, chip eating lard bathing 15 year olds face, the only appropriate response is to gag and pretend to be sick then top it off by sticking out your tongue. A firm friendship was established. My new little friend and I would communicate through eyebrow movements, hand gestures and winking for the rest of my stay.

A cup of rice wine was filled before me. Emptied, it was filled again. It was the nerves! What I actually love about Chinese dinner etiquette is that they ‘cheers’ – in Chinese – frequently. I was up, down, up, down, up down as often as not, two hands beneath the lifted cup as they ‘clink’ – I was actually having a rather lovely time.

Thankfully, one of my host’s cousins spoke English so translating was not just down to her. This same crafty cousin happened to be good friends with my Mandarin teacher who unbeknownst to me coincidentally lived round the corner. I figured that something was up when everyone kept glimpsing at me and giggling. C.C. as I’ll name him, had called my mandarin teacher invited him round for some cake. Brilliant! I devised a cunning plan to continually have my mouth stuffed with food so I did not have to suffer the embarrassment of speaking bad Chinese in front of these hospitable people. Yet despite my protestations and owing to the fact that between each mouthful, my chopstick handling ability or lack thereof allowed for periods of time where my Mandarin teacher could ask me questions and I had no way of delaying. I was cornered – if such a thing is possible round a round table.

So the rice wine continued to flow and Uncle Head Chef was impressed with my drinking ability. I really don’t know how it happened but somehow, after bragging about how good my roast dinners are, by the end of the night I had agreed (I didn’t really have much choice, it’s difficult to argue in Chinese and simply nodding your head gets you into whole worlds of trouble) to cooking with H.C. at least two dishes which were not allowed to be salad and not allowed to be fish and chips – this combination provoking a serious wave of disapproval! Strangely, the more rice wine that was consumed, the more I understood of my hosts. Genuinely, the more plastered we got, the less my host had to translate. During H.C.’s enthusiastic explanation of how to make rice wine, I understood pretty much everything! Especially how when you heat it, it must not be heated above boiling point – an intricate detail and one I was impressed to have deciphered from his gesticulations. Perhaps I was going to be alright here – if I was continually drunk.

At the train station

Tuesday 17th Feb

Three cereal bars and a bag of celery is all I had time to grab as I left for the station – I’d ration it! All will be fine.

On the way: mist and pollution. It occurred to me that the mist is a bit like a white sandstorm but creepier. With pollution you’re facing an anonymous creepy opponent. A sand storm, however, hits you; it’s there, forceful and blatant whereas I feel with the mist it’s sneaky, edging and mysterious. A slap in the face with a sand filled gust is scary and powerful, it will sting; it’ll cause road accidents; it’ll infiltrate your home but the creeping mist of China that slips down your throat and into your pores is a whole other ball game; in a way far more ominous.

Not underestimating the havoc they can wreak, I loved sand storms, always thought it was like the desert reasserting herself. Telling us who is boss. But there’s something quite sad about a poison mist created entirely by ourselves… Anyway, I digress and don’t worry, I have a mask to wear for cycling to school. The pollution won’t get me. My mask is great, I look like Darth Vader’s stunted, pale sister, equally as skilled with a light saber when not tripping over the cloak they don’t make in ‘short’.

So, again, part of me didn’t want a taxi journey to end. It would mean me having to deal with the station, the craziness and the standing train. Still, being Darth Vader’s little sister means that I have a certain rep to protect, one of bravery and strength so forth.

I stood, wary, in what appeared to be a fairly orderly queue wondering what the stampede would be like when the guards opened the train ticket check. I have my battle tactics in mind and some previous experience in making my point: when a lady at the ticket counter tried to push in front of me, I span my suitcase round so that it landed on her foot. One brief glance at my face was enough to tell her that I was not playing!

At this stage, having purchased two tickets already (I bought the wrong one on my futile trip yesterday but it’s a story I’ve little energy to tell), I have now to settle with myself (haha, spell check just changed that to mulls elf) that my journey yesterday was a ridiculous waste of time! However, my biggest disappointment comes shortly after the afore mentioned battle plan formulation session. I survived the crush, got to the front and low and behold I became the problem. My ticket wouldn’t go through. I had to follow a violently extended finger to the scary looking moss green clad guard, erect and serious: frickin’ scary. He pointed out that the date on my ticket was wrong and basically, despite the tears threatening to cascade; despite the desperate telepathic pleading; despite the hope that if he could only read my face and eyes enough to communicate the peril I was currently facing, he offered no immediate solution.

Well, it would seem, the eyes, on this occasion, did not have it and General Stiff as I have now called him – I’m sure he was trying to be nice – could do nothing for me. I was to don my ruscac, drag my little black case and lump the gift-stacked shoulder bag back to counter number 89 where, if I was lucky, and while my intended train chugged out of the station, I may be able to exchange my ticket for another.

One row with the station master (not fun); one realisation that I can’t actually leave the train station for four hours and one fact that I have already seen more than my fair share of people picking their noses later, I find myself in Costa Coffee counting my blessings that I asked to share a table with the neon clad bespectacled teenager reading manga as she left not long after my arrival and I was able – before the crowd descended, to switch the chairs so mine had arms. I have a Chinese green tea before me and a slice of carrot cake waiting and regardless of what the little green bits are, I will eat it. The icing is as tasteless as Costa at home, a strangely comforting phenomena. With four hours to kill, I thought I might try to find a corner to sleep in. Wouldn’t cinemas in train stations be a good idea?

A man came and sat opposite me and made a million phone calls. I kept my eyes shut but every now and then I would peep through half open eyes to see his huge gold ring clad fingers facing me. I swear every phone call he made, he swapped a ring.

Hours later, having nursed the same green tea and proud of myself that I had resourcefully produced some Chinese phrase cards, I stood there concentrating very hard on generating an impenetrable force field to protect me from hair flicking, barging, the flicking of other things…bluuurgh, it suddenly occurred or me that if I could have anything right now, anything at all, it would be a toffee mint humbug – maybe two.

Happily, I had a window seat next to a twiggish adolescent so enjoyed the prospect of a sunset train journey in a fairly spacious environment – this could even turn out well… Helpfully, while on the train, I was receiving text messages from a colleague who kindly informed me that my destination also boasts the largest leper colony in China. It is however, ‘quite pretty. Apparently.’ Excellent!

Being decisive

Sunday 15th and Monday 16th Feb – Chinese New Year holidays

To my dears at home,

It occurred to me that I have not told you of some of the basic, ‘normal’ stuff that might help you picture my day-to-day life here. Perhaps such information will enable you to rationalise even visualise me in this world so different from where I have been and where I am from. Therefore, bear with me for a few paragraphs as I outline my Sunday and then Monday mornings.

It began with a decision. Well several actually… although perhaps a closer focus still? More detail… It started with three things: a sliced banana squished betwixt two Tuc biscuits; close reflection of this breakfast, and a decision to go food shopping. Anyone who knows me, however, knows that shopping on an empty or insufficiently filled belly will undoubtedly lead to disaster and potentially danger. Thus prompted the aforementioned second decision of the day (after the obvious like I’m going to get non slip-stoppers for that effing rug because skating on the way to the kitchen when barely awake is NOT the way to start the day, or: shit! I’m not supposed to use the tap water for drinking, I’ll have to brush my teeth again – that’ll solve the problem). It (second decision of the day) was to go food shopping after popping to the coffee shop for the purposes of fuel consumption & general public safety and wellbeing. I would eat a club sandwich and enjoy a large coffee to provide sufficient energy for a fairly disaster free venture to the supermarket. Or so I hoped.

As I waited for the lift, I kept my fingers crossed that the left one – as you face them – would be the one to arrive first. Reason being that the right one – as you face them – still plays Christmas music and it freaks me out a little compared to the other one which ever so coolly, ever so casually, plays some chilled yet funky Chinese music that I have aptly named Chilled Chinese Lift Lounge Tunes.

My luck was in. I enjoyed a pleasant journey of head bobbing, shoulder swaying and an occasional knee bend from the 18th floor down.

Further pleasing news that Sunday morning was that the mist was entirely natural rain mist and not an all-consuming pollution monster cloud. Such a surprising treat put a smile on my face which was further extended when I realised the cold that had until now pierced through any coat I had donned; penetrated any thermal vest I tried and splintered into my blood stream had ebbed. It was warm! The smile adorning my face faded – just a tad – when a puffer jacketed moped riding old lady nearly ran me down. Obviously, as the strange grinning westerner standing still on a pavement, appreciating some clear, clean air, it was my fault and the silent and deadly electric scooter driver simply moved on, no word of an apology or acknowledgement – of course.

I grimaced, rolled the balls of my feet and bounced off to the supermarket brushing it off. Running as many other supermarkets do at home – apart from the fact that fresh noodles I selected cost me 10 pence – made me splash out and perhaps over confidently buy some frozen dumplings (you know, for rainy days). I’ve no idea what’s in them but the picture displayed green stuff and was therefore deemed safe to risk. I was unlikely to be consuming cat and/or dog if the picture was green, surely.

Breakfasting and fridge replenishment successfully and safely executed, I returned home. My flat is lovely. I actually love it. Pictures of home (Dubai and England) surround me now and I have the essential nicnacs around me so I am happy to spend time here sitting at my desk which, incidentally, affords me one of my greatest pleasures: an old-school, green, drop down lamp. You cannot possibly begin to understand the insurmountable pleasure and satisfaction derived from pulling the chord on that lamp when my work is done of an evening – unless of course, you have one?

It was as I sat, alone, in this lovely, suddenly too spacious, suddenly too quiet apartment that I made my final notable decision of the day: I would accept the proffered invitation to join the family of one of our Admissions assistants for Chinese New Year. The destination Fenghua; the journey about 3 hours outside Shanghai, and what I needed? Warm clothes. Right. I confirmed my delightful acceptance and set about planning. You see, it’s about taking opportunities, right? It’s about immersing myself in the culture which currently hosts me, and that doesn’t just mean learning how to order dumplings or instructing a taxi driver how to ‘stop here’ – which, by the way, I can now do. It also does not mean ordering Pizza, craving Yorkshire tea and feeling amiss at the unavailability of an oven or bath in my lovely home. I was doing the right thing.

Seeing as most people travel during Chinese New Year, spending time with their families much like many of us at Christmas, there was a decided lack of train tickets. As a result, I conceded in making the decision to book a standing ticket on an available train. This may seem okay – it’s a little over three hours – but I am preparing myself for the worst on my journey: spitting, crowding, not necessarily respecting ones personal space are all going to be factors I must deal with. The only thing I can’t handle, as many of you know, is that I know I’ll freak out if someone’s hair touches me. You know, when some annoying person flicks their hair in your face or leans a little too close, allowing a strand or two to brush against you – I’m talking about that. It makes my skin crawl and fingers clench to resemble a cankered, gnarled old weaver’s hands; I have actually been know to even twitch, shudder and gag at such an occurrence. I breathed out heavily and pushed the thought from my mind, I’d be fine, I’d be fine.

The other thing to note is that buying train tickets in Shanghai means going to the train station to buy them; or finding a travel agent (yeah, good luck with that when everyone’s on holiday). Therefore, Monday, and the adventure started with a nervous trip to Shanghai Railway Station. I’d spent an hour at my desk ridiculously researching the closest stations in Shanghai for practically no reason – I still don’t really know where I live! How the bloody hell was I going to purchase tickets to go to a place I have no idea of from a place I – at best – vaguely recognise? How? I didn’t know but figured with a few hundred RMB in my purse and a taxi card to the station, I’d be fine once I got there.

‘Hen Hao’ (very good) says the taxi driver, enthusiastically nodding and simultaneously prodding the car radio when he thoughtfully selected an Ingo ren (English) radio station playing popular music from home. We sing ‘She’s a good girl’ together – bit weird when you consider the connotations of the song but hey ho. I sing, obliged because he’s so enthusiastic I can’t not and he sings because he’s just pleasant and hospitable, I guess. When he took his hands off the wheel to rave to the next tune I just smiled, well, grimaced, touched and amused that this man was having a jolly good party while transporting his nervously amused passenger.

Part (most) of me was scared as we faced lines of traffic on the impressive yet intimidating elevated road. We were driving into the clouds. Not like in Grease though. Even though I was wearing a black bomber jacket, my hair slicked back a tad, my companion looked very little like Sandy! We were leaving the safety of the part of Shanghai I vaguely recognised. I reflected that it would be so much easier to simply go home, pour some Great Wall red wine and hide beneath covers watching Zoolander. I didn’t know where I was but I guessed that if this grinning, dancing, stunt man of a taxi driver could sing along in an alien tongue and dance whilst driving, I could get to a main railway station to buy a frickin’ train ticket – even I could do that.

And I did. I made it! Another decision: Monday afternoon I shall aptly prepare myself for the ominous trip by having a massage (my first by a man, actually – was very good – so good in fact that my teeth started trembling at one point); a manicure and a glass of champagne. I shall focus on these beautiful things when tomorrow I am standing nose to nose, chest to chest with a tobacco chewing, spit fest ridden carriage avoiding eye contact and generally being very cold and western. I would say ‘wish me luck’ but I’ve already done it and write post trip. Luck, the playful little bugger, was both present and occasionally distracted the next day.