Shiners and Fairy Wings

My Oldest Friend has been here with her family. We never went to the same school but my Dad was her family doctor and we remember each other from Brownies and Speech and Drama classes, awkward girls reciting exam pieces with exaggerated inflection. Later came tennis coaching, discos in the village hall and 18th birthday parties of mutual friends. Then, quite by chance we both applied for the same Oxford College. I had taken a year off to teach in Africa but when I got there she was established, welcomed me in and introduced her friends. Two Essex comprehensive girls from the same village, there was an instant bond.

My Friend married an Australian and they head ‘home’ for a holiday with their three children every two years. So stopping off in Hong Kong is their logical choice and our great good fortune. I tell our youngest that her Godmother is coming to stay and she tells me she will have wings and a magic wand.

I am at the arrivals gate at Hong Kong International Airport when my husband calls to say our 3 year old has slipped off a chair, bashed her head and has a cut above her eye. Should he take her to A&E? Why does this always happen on Friday nights?

The difference from A&E at the Chelsea & Westminster Hospital on a Friday night, however, is that there isn’t a crowd of drunkards with mashed faces feeling sorry for themselves in the waiting area and she is seen instantly. The only wait is when the duty doctor says he doesn’t want to operate himself, thinks a general anaesthetic might be required and calls a consultant plastic surgeon away from his Friday night dinner. This is reported to me by phone in the car as I drive our guests back from the airport. Just how big is this little cut above the eye, I begin to wonder.

All three of our boys have had spells in A&E, usually on Friday nights. They have been glued, stitched and steri-stripped back together with or without local anaesthesia and all have the scars to show for it. On one occasion after a fall I had to restrain our second son while his head was stitched up and his four year old brother looked on in horror so I don’t envy my husband’s role. We all hope he can dissuade the doctor from a general as that will mean an overnight stay for one of us when, let’s be honest, we’d rather be catching up with our friends.

We are just starting supper when they arrive home.
I was very brave. I didn’t cry, says the three year old.
She screamed blue murder, says my husband. All is well and I am secretly glad that Hong Kong feel plastic surgeons are required for little girls with gashed heads.

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We have a blast with Essex and Auz. It is not their first Hong Kong visit so we eschew the obvious sights and have a fun day at Ocean Park out with all seven children. We ride the helium balloon that rises outside our windows each and every day. We see the pandas munching their bamboo lunch, the seals performing tricks for theirs. Parents and boys ride the Raging River in their log boat while I watch them get splashed with the three little girls, my daughter and her Godsisters, as she has taken to calling them. Then we are delighted by the dolphin show before riding home on the cable car and putting seven exhausted children to bed.

Now it is our turn. We take the Star Ferry to Tsim Sha Tsui and watch the “light show” as the water front skyscrapers flash out their coloured lights and lasers across the harbour. We drink an aperitif in a swanky roof-top bar, move on to Soho to eat Manchurian food and return to Lang Kwai Fung where open fronted bars with names such as The Whisky Priest and Post 97 spill their customers out onto the streets in the warm night air. The streets are packed and wide-eyed tourists wander by, rubber necking the scantily clad beauties who stroll past in impossibly high heels while we sip cocktails and take it all in.

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By Sunday late nights and jet lag have caught up with us all. We go to rugby for the final training session of the season. Medals and player awards are given out by the England Rugby Sevens team, here in preparation for the Hong Kong Sevens next week. They sign the boys’ shirts and when I ask our eight year old whose signature he has on his back, he tells me, He said he was Jonny Wilkinson.

And suddenly it is time for our friends to leave, for the fairy Godmother to don her wings once more and fly off on the next leg of her journey. I want to hold on to them, to the laughter we have enjoyed, to that rare feeling of being with old friends with whom one shares a past, to the news they brought from London of City gloom, of still full Islington restaurants, of mutual friends and places we loved. It has all gone too fast, a fleeting relaxed moment in this edgy place. Tomorrow morning it’s business as usual; my daughter has a huge purple shiner and my guard will be back in place.

Sickening Technology

My computer is ill. Remarkably since arriving in Hong Kong it has been serviced by remote link by the same technical wizard who looked after it when we were but a dash up the A3 in SW15. I don't really understand how it works but this incredible technology means that my cursor can be operated by a man sitting 6,000 miles away who then makes my computer better. Only this time something has gone seriously wrong. He suspects a Trojan invasion and tells me I need to find out if my hard drive is IDE or SATA and then buy a USB drive enclosure and take out the hard drive and plug it into my laptop. He might as well be speaking to me in Chinese.

Just recently I asked for party bags in a big international department store. After much explaining and gesticulating and the intervention of several other shop assistants who supposedly did understand English I was directed to a stand and shown some post-it notes. On another occasion when trying to find duvet covers I was taken to the nail scissors. I find the prospect of having a similarly baffling encounter with a mystified shop assistant when I don't really understand what it is I am after more than terrifying. Meanwhile the Trojan is busy eating its way through my files and folders, my pictures and documents.

I am like the rabbit frozen in the glare of the headlights, petrified for the loss of hundreds of files and too scared to go in search of a USB drive enclosure for fear of returning with a carpet cleaner.

We bought our first computer in 2000. In just eight and a half years my life, my communication, my ability to read the news, research a project, look up a detail and contact a friend has become dependent on this hardware/software heap on my desk. And this is the second one that has died on me. In less than nine years. Clearly they are not built to last, but where do they all go? Is there a hole in the ground (next to the one full of disposable nappies) filling up with our old computers? Will anyone reclaim and recycle it while I look for a USB drive enclosure and a new model?

In the meantime, bear with me. I may be gone some time.

The Dervish in the Toy Cupboard

I am like a woman possessed. Correction: I am a woman possessed. The amahs are tip-toeing about, lying low and, I suspect, although I don’t speak Tagalog, muttering to each other, “Keep your head down, she’s off on one!”

This morning we overslept. In the fifteen minutes that were left to get the boys up, dressed, breakfasted, packed up and out I discovered a pile of dolls’ cooking accessories and 9 birthday cards stuffed in the Chinese armoire and a paint box, complete with brush and water, tucked in amongst the shoes. I didn’t find the school form that I was searching for and nor did I find the Egyptian sundial we made out of a Shreddies packet which the ten year old needed for Science today. Should I be surprised? It’s probably been thrown away. Toys are rubbish and rubbish make toys in this house. Who can tell the difference?

Clearly it was time to act, time to grasp the principles of Feng Shui and clear the clutter. “Clutter is fear.” I read recently, “Shed your clutter and you will lose weight and attract romance and money.” Not sure what my husband would think of me attracting romance but I’m sure he’d welcome a bit of financial assistance. I asked the amahs not to use the cupboard as a residual dump for every letter, toy, unfinished painting, half-burnt candle and discarded piece of wrapping paper they find in the living room and set about putting things back in their proper places.

Before we left London I spent six months preparing for the mother of all moves. Like a swirling dervish I went through cupboards and drawers, the cellar, the shed. Consumed by a need to turn out and declutter, nothing was safe: clothes, books, toys, kitchenware and pictures all got the same treatment. Even my husband began to fear for his safety. I was spotted selling at car boot sales, lugging armfuls of stuff to the Oxfam shop, unloading rubbish at the dump.

Thus we arrived in Hong Kong. Having supervised the packing and unpacking myself I felt thoroughly in control. I had the overview and everything had its place. That was last summer. Since then Christmas and three birthdays have come our way, we’ve been here seven months during four of which the amahs have been busy putting things away in the wrong places.

And so I find myself in the Little-Ones’ room with handfuls of puzzle bits, Playmo weapons, dolls’ cooking utensils, games counters and take a good look round. Sorting the kids’ toys is something you can’t do by halves, well, this obsessive compulsive disordered person can’t anyway.

I am on my knees. I spot Playmo police in the Romans box, Vikings are fraternising with the ambulance men. It all has to come out. There is Lego in the Brio, I empty both baskets. Puzzles may be incomplete; I do them to make sure they’re not. Balls go in one box, animals in another. Stray chess pawns are returned to their comrades. The naked dolls have their dignity and rightful clothes restored to them. Fairies are removed from the knights and put back in their toadstool house. Soft toys go here, cars in there. I replace batteries, repair what I can and bin what I can’t. Do we really need 8 fluffy topped pens? Do children too young to carry keys have to have all these key rings? Where does all this plastic Chinese tat come from anyway?

I busy myself for an hour and a half and then survey my work. The room looks no different. It wasn’t really untidy in the first place but it was the internal untidiness that was bothering me. So what have I actually achieved this morning? Now, for a few days at most, everyone will be able to find exactly what they are looking for in this room by which time it will all be muddled up again. A therapist once pointed out to me that my constant need to clear out was closely related to a history of eating disorders: purge your house, purge yourself. Perhaps she’d read the same article on Feng Shui. I don’t know if I buy it but I will admit it makes me feel better to think the pirates are not socialising with the princesses.

No, if I’m honest I know that this sudden urge to purge actually has more to do with not getting on with whatever it is I’m avoiding. It’s like folding your sweaters when you should be doing your tax return. But in the meantime the big boys’ room beckons, as does the TV room and the children’s clothes, some no doubt outgrown, are winking at me from the drawers.

Dragons and Feng Shui

Back in January (shame on me!) I was tagged by my cyber friend at Paradise Lost in Translation to follow these 'meme' instructions: open 'My Pictures' on your computer, go to the 4th folder and choose the 4th picture in that folder, tell the story of the picture and then photo tag 4 others to do the same.














So, better late than never, here is the 4th in the 4th: the beach at Repulse Bay taken last Autumn when a group of mothers met there for a morning with the children. It was a hot day and the young ones ended up in the water while the mothers chatted. Not bad for October; life's a beach.

The blue building in the background is part of The Repulse Bay; a large complex of apartments, health club, shopping mall and restaurants all built on the site of the once famous Repulse Bay Hotel which was knocked down in the 1980s to make way for a more profitable development.

The old hotel enjoyed 62 years as a centre for 'charm, chic and the Charleston'. Writers such as George Bernard Shaw and Noel Coward stayed there and Marlon Brando was a guest in the 1950s. For years it could only be reached by boat and was considered a romantic hideaway.

At boarding school in post-war England where rationing was still in force, my mother had a friend whose parents lived in plentiful Hong Kong and her mouth would water in envy at the stories this girl recounted of meals out at the The Repulse Bay Hotel where Baked Alaska was served for pudding. And yet, it is Hong Kong's very nature to be constantly renewing and rebuilding itself and as a result there are few old buildings to be found.

The second blue building, just visible on the right of my photo, is the building with the hole which towers over what remains of the old hotel and is also part of the same complex.













The hole is to all to do with feng shui and is there because the building was built so close to the mountain which is where the dragons reside. On the other side of the building is the ocean and if dragons are not allowed to drink then that's not good and you get bad ch'i.

To feng shui masters the earth is a living organism and its breath is ch'i, the 'dragon vapour'. There are good and bad locations for siting buildings on hills; ideal is the south slope flanked by the arms of the hill. The dragon's tail should be avoided lest you anger the beast and it flicks the building down - practical advice in China where earthquakes are relatively common.

The principles might sound like common sense dressed up as hocus pocus but the fact remains that when feng shui was outlawed in mainland China after the revolution most of the masters of the ancient philosophy were driven across the border into Hong Kong. Today 90% of Hong Kong Chinese are believers and there are more than 10,000 feng shui teachers.

One building which is said to occupy one of the very best feng shui sites in Hong Kong is the HSBC building. Designed by Norman Foster, it is located on a dragon's vein, which runs down to the sea from Victoria Peak. So as not to obstruct the flow of the vein the ground floor was left open for public use and it is here on a Sunday morning that the chatter of thousands of Filipina helpers can be heard as they meet friends, share picnics and news from home. Its view of the waters of Victoria Harbour is important as water symbolises the inflow of money. So important in fact, that the bank gave the government money to build a park and a low-lying garage to ensure the harbour view would be unobstructed.














By contrast the designers of the nearby Bank of China got it all wrong. Whilst this bank lies on the same vein as the HSBC and was opened on 8.8.88, the most auspicious day in the Chinese calendar the design, based on triangles, is considered too aggressive. The sharp corners are like daggers: some appear to point inwards, while one points at Hong Kong's Legislative Council Building. From certain angles the building resembles a meat cleaver and the two 'chopsticks' on top of the building point upwards, like incense sticks used as a memorial to the dead. Considering the pitfalls, you have to wonder who'd be an architect in Hong Kong? And yet, given the money and prestige involved in designing one of the island's landmark buildings, I'd be willing to bet there are plenty of takers.

I'm now supposed to tag four other bloggers with this meme and yet most of those I read have done it already, with considerably more passion and flair than my own execution. I have to admit, I am not comfortable with such tasks - they smack of school essays and the words never quite seem to flow. Besides which, four is considered an unlucky number by most Chinese. We live in the fourth house in a row and yet our house bears the number five. So I think I'll just leave it open and hope that the dragon in this unruly piece is not offended. If you feel like picking up the tag and running with it, go ahead. If not, then just let sleeping dragons lie.

Thinking Outside the Box

Another Sunday. Another tournament. Here I stand on the touch-line once more, watching my boys acquire the battle scars of rugby that represent some vital male rite of passage. I won't pretend I get it but I do know when my eight year old is off-side (because he spends a lot of time there) and I know my ten year old is relatively safe because he's not in the scrum. I also know that it's cold, damp and foggy and, if I'm really honest, I'd rather be at home with the Sunday papers and a hot cup of tea.

And yet it's quite a sociable place to be: we recognize school mates who play for other clubs, people we met skiing. I chat to the mums and dads of our team mates as we cheer them on. It's what we do. It's what Hong Kong does. Organised sport, be it football, hockey or rugby, has replaced our spontaneous weekend footie games on the Common with other boys from the neighbourhood. And astroturf has replaced the muddy grass of home. The irony is not lost on me: now that I no longer have to do the laundry there is not a trace of mud to be found.

And yet today I have the feeling that organised sport has not quite ticked all our boxes. On the way home from the tournament with both boys in the back of a taxi I am inclined to believe our eight year old is trying to tell me something. I am as baffled as his older brother.

Is this supposed to be spring?

Emails from Europe bring news of snow drops. The crocuses will be out in Kew Gardens followed by the fritillaries and the daffodils. Oh how I miss those early signs of spring. That was my season: almond blossom, magnolia and flowering cherry nodding at me from front gardens as we walked to school, tiny narcissi in the garden and bluebells on the Common.

It being my first year in Hong Kong I am not quite sure what form the seasons actually take here. In the course of our seven month stay it’s been very hot and humid, slightly less hot and not humid, cool and dry, cool and foggy and now not particularly cold but very decidedly wet. The pages of our books have started to go crinkly and a friend who’s been in the tropics for years pointed out that we needed to dehumidify before the books turn mouldy. Check your clothes too, she said. And your electronic gadgets: computers hate the damp. Oh no!!! The Domestic God was dispatched to stock up on more dehumidifiers which now hum through the day gathering litres of water from the damp household air.

On a brighter note, through the cloud which sits low each day on the island’s peaks, I became aware of an unfamiliar tree which has burst into purple blossom all over the island in recent weeks. Thinking it might be a relative of the magnolias at home, I stopped the car in a passing place one day as we are descending the Peak and leapt out to pluck a single flower. Back home we looked it up on the internet.

It is Bauhinia Blakeana or the Hong Kong Orchid Tree and the national flower of Hong Kong which appears on the country’s flag, albeit in white. I am rather pleased at our discovery. I have learned a little more about this strange old place whilst the magenta blooms bring some much needed colour to a very grey season.

Alice in Hong Kong

The Hong Kong Festival is on and last night we took the boys to see the English National Ballet perform Alice in Wonderland at the Cultural Centre. The building stands on Kowloon-side overlooking Hong Kong harbour from Tsim Sha Tsui and we took the Ferry there.

The Cultural Centre faces what is arguably one of the best views in the world and yet it has no windows, balconies or terraces from which to appreciate it. Could this be a reflection of the Chinese culture, that when there is so much to see and enjoy outside it remains stubbornly inward looking?

For me at least, the ballet represented a tiny oasis in a cultural desert although I did for a brief moment wonder what Lewis Caroll had been on when he conceived the idea of hookah smoking caterpillars and babies that morph into pigs. There were lots of families with young children there who, like us, had failed to get matinee or weekend tickets. Behind us three boys fell asleep early in the first act: one of them snoring gently throughout. As we got up to stretch our legs in the interval the circle was sprinkled with children curled up in their seats for whom the excitement of the White Rabbit and the Mad Hatter had just not been enough.

Ours did remarkably well. The four year old was transfixed by the dancing animals and laughed outright at the antics of mock turtle and gryphon. As we applauded the final act and the conductor emerged on stage the eight year old leaned towards me and said earnestly,
You know Mummy, the conductor looks like Wayne Rooney. If he was wearing Man U kit people might think Rooney is really clever.
Now there’s a thought.