Confessions of a reluctant HR Manager

We get back from skiing late on Saturday night. Sunday is the amahs’ day off and rather than wait for Monday I set about the washing. There are nine full loads of it.

The following morning I become increasingly aware that all is not well. A neighbour who’s heard gossip from her amah alerts me to the fact there is a family feud bubbling away in our house. The sisters are seemingly no longer going out together, nor are they eating together, nor are they even speaking to each other. When I walk in to the kitchen you could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

What on earth is going on? We’ve only been away a week and civil war has broken out. I thought the amahs were there to help me and yet I am spending more time and energy sorting out their issues than my own. Lucky as I am to have this level of help, this is so not what I need. I am a mother, not a trade union official. I spend the evening discussing it with my reasonable, diplomatic and wise husband who then sends me in to bat. Can’t you do it? I plead. No, he says, this is your department.

One by one, I hear them out. It is six of one, half a dozen of the other; she did this, she said that, petty squabbles, jealousy and bickering. I fought long and hard to get the Dream Team to Hong Kong from the Philippines and this is what it’s come to. I am so fed up I could bang their heads together.

Now it’s my turn to speak and I read the riot act. Things have begun to slide. I have been too lenient. Metaphorically speaking there have been too many boiled turkeys, too many incidents of polishing the antique furniture with Windolene. It’s time to lay down the law. This is the sort of behaviour I would not tolerate from my children, and I tell them so. If they can’t sort out their issues with each other then I’ll send them both home. For good.

Do I make myself clear? I hear myself saying before I march out of the room, every inch the Ma’am, the employer, the boss. And as I do I know my cheeks are flaming and I want to run and hide. I feel as though I’m ten years old, play-acting a part in a big-girls’ play. It was a part I didn’t really want and rarely have I felt so ill-equipped, so under-qualified and so fake. These women are the same age as me and yet I sound like a mother, a teacher, an old cow.

Ten minutes later I leave for yoga and hope that a bit of deep breathing and sun worship might calm me down. I wonder what the fall out will be and reason that if they are really unhappy they can try their luck elsewhere. They are free agents and can give notice at any time. Despite the inconvenience and my deep reluctance to return to my helpless in Hong Kong state, I know that in time I will find a replacement. A former boss of mine used to say, whenever anyone left his firm, We’ll get someone better. And yet, in truth what we all know is that a month’s salary in Hong Kong is not far off the average annual wage in the Philippines. Whilst I am reeling at the disproportionate amount of power I seem to have acquired, my amahs might be reflecting that a decent job in Hong Kong is not something you want to lose to a sisterly spat. But the truth is that with all the cultural, social and linguistic issues that divide us, coupled with my own inexperience at handling squabbling banshees in my own kitchen, I have simply no idea what they are thinking or what they’ll do next. All I know is that I never applied for the job of HR Manager.

"Where happiness means the world"

We spent the week of the Chinese New Year holiday skiing in Sahoro, Japan. It was our first time at Club Med and I was all prepared for bun-fights in the dining room and worse.

The reality is a pleasant surprise. The hotel is pretty full, Chinese Week being one of the busiest times of its season. Our children are happy and therefore, by extension, so are we. The whole place is geared up to enable parents and their children to have the best possible time. Every need is catered for and there is such an array of activities on offer for the kids, even after a day on the slopes, that it would be quite possible not to see your children for much of the holiday.

We meet a myriad of other families: we recognise some from Hong Kong but there are Dutch from Seoul, Germans from Shanghai, French from Beijing, Brits from Sakhalin, Brunei and Oman, Canadian Indians from Singapore and Malaysians from Kuala Lumpur. The instructors are from Quebec, Japan, Korea, Australia, New Zealand and USA. Together we represent a whole melting pot of nationalities, colours, origins and residencies, all united by this strange need to ski fast down the side of a mountain.

At the end of our third day our two year old starts throwing up. The Kids’ Club and its single chap-stick approach to 20 kids might be held responsible. The fall-out, however, is our problem and for four days she remains volatile at both ends, reminding us intermittently in pitiful tones, I’m sick.

The Domestic God and I ski and play nursemaid in half day shifts. Our little patient is wiped out and sleeps for hours on end. In the meantime the boys make huge progress on the slopes. Our ten year old grows fast and fearless. His younger brother is slower but stays staunchly upright. Our four year old recounts his achievements after his first ever day on skis. The story involves a ramp and a backwards flip told with such conviction I think he believes it really did happen.

On an outing with the older boys our last run takes in the so-called Monkey Run, a horrifyingly narrow, tree-lined track of deep ruts and bumps which the kids love and the adults love to hate. Speed is inevitable as there is no room to turn or slow down. The only way to survive is to crouch low and try and scoot over the bumps. The eight year old goes first and snow ploughs his way down. I go last and pass the ten year old at break-neck speed as he rights himself after a fall. In trying to avoid him I momentarily lose concentration and it is enough to land me in the trees in deep snow, my skis above my head. I need a hand, I need a crane. Eventually I free myself from the skis and sink thigh deep into soft snow and struggle out of the drift and back onto the run. The ten year old has gone off in a huff. The eight year old is waiting patiently for me at the bottom, the only one of us not to have taken a tumble. Leave it to the monkeys next time, I mutter.

Japan is an experience in itself and the unusual combination of daytime skiing and après-ski sushi suits me down to the ground. The slopes are beautifully empty, several hundred Club Medders managing to disperse themselves so widely over the mountain that we never once wait more than 3 or 4 minutes for a lift. One feature which will remain in my mind for months to come as I wonder why it has not caught on in Europe is the Japanese heated loo seat – perfect for ski-cooled backsides as you come in from the cold!

Home once more, I am inclined to think we were lucky to get away with no more than a stomach upset. Five skiers have returned with not a twisted ankle nor a broken bone between them and to me that seems like quite an achievement and certainly enough to persuade me, credit crunch aside, we might even want to go back next year.

New Beginnings

Still short of sleep from our weekend extravaganza the Pioneering Accountant and I sat up late last night to watch Barack H. Obama inaugurated as 44th President of the United States of America. I have rarely taken more than a last minute interest in the race for the White House which seems to alternate its Republican and Democratic occupants with remarkable consistency. Yet who could have failed to be inspired by the eloquence, the style, the charisma and the passion of a young African-American Senator from Illinois who brought the race for the White House alive the moment he announced his candidacy?

As Obama took his oath and made a sober speech I found myself believing, like so many others, that this man can bring change to the US and, in its wake, change to the whole world. No pressure then, Mr President.

I hadn't waited up so late to watch a politician on the box since Tony Blair and New Labour were swept to power in May 1997. And what a disappointment they turned out to be. So one can only hope that President Obama has more up his sleeve than the spin and rhetoric that have finally spun us into probably the worst recession since the end of WW2, rocketing national debt and a guarantee to bail out Britain's banks that threatens to eclipse the entire economy. Good luck Mr Obama, may things on your side of the pond go better than on ours.

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I have been up to the school to confer with staff on our ten year old's progress. I think he's turned a corner said his teacher. Yes, but have you? I stopped myself from saying.

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Chinese New Year is approaching and all Christmas decorations have morphed seamlessly into New Year decorations. Red lanterns hang in the garage and the gates and walls are adorned with red and gold paper decorations marked with messages of good fortune. The poinsettia have been replaced by potted yellow and red chrysanthemums and cylindrical mandarin bushes loaded with fruit and decorated with red 'pockets' now stand outside the entrances. In ox shaped pots clusters of smooth Chinese lemons, symbols of good fortune, are on sale. The country is gearing up for a big holiday and on January 26th we will welcome in the Year of the Ox.

Anxious to avoid a faux pas I went to my neighbour for hints and tips. At Chinese New Year and for ten days thereafter, the onus is on anyone with employer status to hand out cash-filled red pockets to everyone who works for you in some capacity. For me this means the amahs, the porters, the gardener, the repair man and everyone down the line from my hairdresser and the boy at the backwash, the dry cleaner who collects our stuff and the pest control men who keep us cockroach free. It can also include waiters and kitchen staff in favourite restaurants if one is going there any time over New Year. For the Pioneering Accountant it includes just about everyone in the office who is either junior to him or unmarried right down to the tea-lady and the cleaners. He has heard said that queues form outside offices when word goes around that one of the partners is giving out red pockets.

The money that goes into the red pockets must be brand new notes representing new fortune for the New Year . The newness of the note is seemingly more important than the actual amount though I can't quite believe the gardener would be happier to get 10 new Hong Kong dollars than 100 old ones. If one doesn't see ones hairdresser, dry cleaner, pest control people etc etc then it's tough luck and they miss out. My husband believes there will be a sudden rush of calls from suppliers in the ten days after New Year 'just checking' we have all we need. I have visions of whole families turning out the lights and hiding behind the sofa when they hear the doorbell ring for fear of being discovered without enough new notes. We are going away. Kung Hei Fat Choi!

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I am touched and rather surprised to find I have been given a blogging award by my cyberspace alter-ego Nappy Valley Girl. I was trying to remember the last time I received an award and I can think only of a very dull anthology of German poetry I was given as second prize in a German public speaking contest when I was 16 so this is an honour indeed and gives me much encouragement to carry on with this blogging malarkey. I am required to print the accompanying text and to pass on the award which I do, not to eight fellow bloggers as I don't know that many but to my first true cyberspace friends at Not Wrong Just Different and Paradise Lost In Translation.

"Blogs who receive this award are "exceedingly charming," says its authors. This award is a fine one because it focuses not on the glory and fanfare of blogging, but in the PROXIMITY to one another through this online-world. This blog invests and believes in the PROXIMITY--nearness in space, time and relationships. These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in prizes or self-aggrandizement! Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers! Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this clever-written text into the body of their award."

When I grow up....

We're sitting at supper discussing what we're going to be when we grow up. I haven't yet decided and am beginning to think it's time I set my children a better example. What about you? the boys ask their two year old sister. A lemon! she says emphatically to much hilarity. No really, what do you want to be? They try again. A boy, she says.

For One Night Only!

Late on Friday after dropping the big boys with a friend and snuggling with the little ones, having written lists of instructions and useful numbers for the amahs I creep away like a thief in the night and board a plane bound for London. I plug my ears and cover my eyes and I sleep for ten hours. I am off on a crazy venture and I'm going to need all the Zzzs I can get. When I wake it is 11am Hong Kong time and yet it is still dark outside. I am flying back though an everlasting night. I am offered breakfast.

Three hours later we are over London. Descending through the patchy cloud I see the orange lights of the city and the black serpentine of the River Thames. Somewhere beneath me is our house. I know this because it lies on the approach to Heathrow airport. How often have I cursed the long haul flights from Hong Kong that roar in to land as early as 4.30 in the morning? The newspaper I picked up at the airport last night tells me the Government is going ahead with Heathrow's third runway in spite of all opposition from local residents and environmental groups but to compensate a high speed rail hub is to be built. Why does that compensate? I wonder. More disruption, more building, more congestion.

We land at T5, all shining glass and steel. I am briefly nervous for my luggage. Signs in T5 inform me that the escalators are slow moving to save energy and that all the rainwater from the roof is recycled. It's good marketing but I don't buy into the idea that an airport can be green. On this day I am anyway too guiltily aware of my own carbon footprint. A woman who flies 5,000 miles around the globe to surprise a friend at his 40th birthday party can hardly get on her environmental high horse about anything.

For all its space and light and wonderful retail opportunities once I reach security T5 has the same long queues as its older siblings. I am stripped of my jacket, my boots and my belt and find myself out the other side hurriedly redressing with a group of strangers all equally reluctant to make eye contact on finding themselves so compromised. It is 7am but still dark. I meet my husband in the lounge. We are offered breakfast.

We board a plane to Frankfurt and we are offered breakfast again. I would welcome a different meal yet in this long day it is forever breakfast time. In Frankfurt there is snow on the ground and I grow a little anxious that my outfit for the evening involves bare shoulders and open-toed sandals.

A bus awaits passengers on the tarmac and as we are heading for the terminal building a chain of baggage-carrying trucks slips its brake and collides with the side of our bus. The driver stops the bus and gets out. A baggage handler comes to look and sucks his teeth. Mobiles are reached for and an incident report is opened. Much discussion takes place. We wait and wait. After fifteen minutes someone arrives and tries to push the baggage carts away from the side of the bus. At last, we think, we can get going. Ten minutes later a replacement bus arrives. We traipse past the scene of the crash where a minute scratch can be seen. As we depart, the airport police arrive with blue flashing lights. Only in Germany I think.

Once in Bad Homburg we take a stroll for old time's sake. It seems so empty, so different to the waves of shoppers that crowd Hong Kong's streets and malls. We bump into an acquaintance and laughingly explain why we're there. We bump into another couple who likewise quiz us on our secret arrival. We go into a shop and while my husband tries on trousers I watch a lady choose between two black frocks. After a long look at them both she says, I'll try the Dior again. It is the conservative choice but I prefer the other one.

We eat lunch in a favourite old haunt and drift back to our hotel for an afternoon nap. Just as we are sliding into sleep the phone rings. We have been spotted and it is another friend who has rung the party's hosts to find out if it really was us he saw and if so, where we are staying. Our secret is almost out but thankfully it was not the birthday boy who answered the phone. His wife who got there first has been in on our little scheme from the beginning.

The party is in Frankfurt. As we enter our host catches sight of us and does a double take. His jaw hits the floor and his astonished face is a picture I shall never forget. 'For one night only!' we shout and bounce down the stairs to be greeted and hugged. Many old friends are there and the evening passes in a blur of laughter, conversation and happy reunions. We eat a fabulous dinner in elegant surroundings. There are witty speeches and a live band and we dance into the early hours. I see the lady in the black frock and I am amazed at the cool way she bought a Dior dress in the afternoon for a party that night. Perhaps she would be amazed at the cool way we have flown overnight from Hong Kong to a party in Frankfurt.

Having been in this day for some 32 hours, I am starting to fade. Reluctantly we take our leave and catch a lift with others heading in our direction. My head is full of the evening's excitement and the success of our surprise. I am now wide awake and manage only an hour's sleep.

The following day we see as many friends as we can. It is another day of multiple breakfasts, brunch at the home of last night's hosts, an unexpected lunch and finally ‘Kaffee und Kuchen’ at the home of the lovely neighbours whom our eldest son first befriended through the hedge over eight years ago. We sit at big tables in warm houses and catch up on all that has happened in the months or years since we last met.

In the early evening we climb aboard our flight to London. Unable to keep my eyes open a moment longer I am asleep before take off. We land at Heathrow, call home to hear the children at breakfast and tell them we'll be home by bedtime. They have a day at school ahead of them. We have 13 hours on a plane. The day is almost through as we wake to yet another breakfast. Back in Hong Kong we put the children to bed, unpack and are quickly ready for bed ourselves. The time spent away has been too short for us to be suffering from jet lag. So short in fact that our memories of the weekend have a dream-like quality. Were we really in Germany just yesterday or did we dream it all?

One in a Dillion

I collected our four year old from nursery school early today and took him to his big brothers’ school for his Y01 entry assessment. The assessment of six four year olds took an hour and a half and I began to wonder if my bouncy lad would grow short of blood sugar as it got closer to lunch time. He emerged looking cheerful, told me he couldn’t remember what he’d been asked and we went home.

Barely two hours later I got a call from the school Admissions Secretary. She informed me that our son had not been successful in the assessment and listed the reasons why; he hadn’t been able to give the names of the letters and only knew 17 out of 26 of his letter sounds. That many? Good boy! He had not been able to count backwards from 10 to 0 and was uncertain of the higher numbers. I can relate to that. What had counted against him most, however, was that when asked to name the number zero my son took one look at it and said with conviction, a dillion. Laughter (mine).

The teacher had asked him again and our son repeated his answer, a dillion. The Admissions Secretary explained patiently to me that the teacher who had been assessing our son was not familiar with the word a dillion. She began to sound quite put out, whether this was due to my guffaws or because an assessment of our son had been a complete waste of the school’s time, I’ll never know.

One thing, however, is clear. I need to find a school that does know what a dillion is and that appreciates a boy who, when in a tight spot, is able to think on his feet.

Just a spoonful of sugar......

I am not a fan of theme parks. We live opposite one and I will go to some lengths to avoid actually going there myself. In London we lived close enough to Windsor for Legoland to be a day of annual sufferance in my calendar. Here, each time we drive to the airport the familiar outline of Mickey Mouse's head looks down at us from the motorway signage so it was only a matter of time before the subject of Hong Kong's Disneyland was raised in our household.

Our seven year old has recently turned eight. Rather than have a party organised by his embarrassing parents he asked if we might go to Disneyland instead. As the appointed day came closer, I began to grit my teeth in anticipation.

Reality was suspended the moment we drove through the gates. With no prior warning we had entered a vast landscaped world of manicured grass and monumentally straight palm trees which lined our route to the car park, a space so curiously empty of cars that we began to wonder if Disneyland was in fact closed for renovation. A few others arrived so we followed them to the main gate along the neat brick paths, with wrought iron railings, fountains, topiary and quaint buildings lining the way.

Tunes from Mary Poppins were playing and the children began to sing and skip along to the music. I looked around, half expecting Dick Van Dyke to come and shake my hand as the whole place started to look more and more like Cherry Tree Lane. The noise and dirt and skyscrapers of Hong Kong were a million miles away and we had been magically and inexplicably transported to a fantasy place like, well like Disneyland, I suppose.

We were greeted by helpful attendants who smiled so much that the pain of parting with vast amounts of cash was forgotten. Ahead of us was a flower bed reproduction of The Mouse's head on a grassy bank which rose to a picture perfect railway station. And blow me down if a huge, new, shiny red steam engine didn't pull up with perfect timing and whistle at us to clamber aboard.

In a state of disbelief we wandered down Main Street USA looking at the small-town white clapboard shops full of Disney merchandise, cotton candy and apple pies. The air was full of the sugary smell of toffee flavoured popcorn and Donald Duck waved to passers by from the porch of a house. I was prepared to laugh, think How cheesy! and endure, and yet to my amazement I found myself admitting it was rather well done, not in the least bit tacky, clean, shiny and well-organised and all presented in surprisingly good taste.

Agog we headed for Cinderella's Castle, rode on her fantasy carousel with crowds of giggling Chinese men, flew with Dumbo and in Adventureland took a river cruise on a steamer through the jungle where we were sprayed by elephants, frightened by piranhas, shot at through blow pipes and roared at by the Fire God. Then we climbed up to visit Tarzan's house which I was convinced was built in a real tree. Duh! Nothing here is real, Mummy! Cynic that I am, I was beginning to enjoy myself and was wowed by the special effects. The animals were life-like and all was completed with astonishing attention to detail.

We had our photos taken with Mickey and friends, were charmed by Minnie's antics and hugged by Pluto, spun in cups at the Mad Hatter's tea party and saw the most incredible 3-D film of Donald which had us all ducking (ha, ha) to avoid the objects that flew out of the screen at us at high speed. We moved on into Tomorrowland and went on a space mission instructed by Buzz Lightyear to shoot down space robots. It was such a blast that the six of us ran back round to the entrance to do it all again. The cold had kept the masses away so there were no queues and we were able to climb straight back in to our space cars and ride once more.

As the fireworks lit the skies above Cinderella's Castle and we walked back down Cherry Tree Lane to soothing farewell Disney tunes I found myself wondering if an annual pass might not be a sound investment. The children were wide-eyed with wonder, tired and happy with all they'd seen. And I, having expected the worst could only admit that I had had the most brilliant time.