The Flying Sofa

Taxis here are incredibly cheap and my husband can travel to and from work by cab every day for considerably less than the price of renting a parking space in the centre of town. On the other hand the whole family does not fit legally into one taxi so we decided that a car was essential kit.

There is a vast underground car park in Wanchai, known as the Auto Mall, where a handful of wily second hand dealers are busy selling the largest, cleanest selection of second hand cars imaginable. Whilst the boys looked longingly at the fast, low, roofless variety, “Can we have that one?” and I wondered if I could abandon my greenish principles in favour of a big 4x4 we discovered that 98% of the cars on show had ruled themselves out of our purchase by having either 2, 4 or 5 seats “We wouldn’t all fit in that one.” was the oft repeated mantra. And thus we inevitably found our way to the section where they sell people carriers.

Now if like me you thought I drove the most boring car ever when in England, then think again, for I am now the proud owner of a gold coloured Nissan Pressage whose most exciting feature is its automatically operated sliding door on the left hand side. It seats eight on its beige velour seats and is now universally referred to as the Flying Sofa, although in fact I think the flying label is a little optimistic.

Early outings in the Flying Sofa were not a great success. My husband was nervous about me driving at all; still not in possession of either Hong Kong ID or a Hong Kong driving licence, he was worried I might not be insured, or insurable, I can’t remember which. Once I’d pointed out that my inability to drive while waiting 6-8 weeks for my HK driving licence to be granted might mean we all had to starve he was quick to relent and we went on a test run to the supermarket.

On leaving the rooftop car park I had to make a sharp left hand turn to get on to the narrow exit ramp. There was an awkward twist in the walled sides of the ramp and I ended up with the front of the car just two inches from the wall, facing down a steep incline. The car was straining forward on the slope and would have rolled into the wall before I could transfer my foot from the brake to the accelerator to get it to reverse back up the hill. I wasn’t sure that the reverse gear alone was enough to hold it off the dreaded wall which was an all too close reminder that I was not insured to drive this car!

We needed the foot brake. My husband scrabbled for the User Manual and flicked through the pages to find out where it was as we sat blocking the car park exit with the baffled parking attendant loitering near by. With the foot brake on we were no longer in imminent danger of rolling into the wall, but how to release it? More reading and then with considerable noise and a smell of burning rubber we managed to dislodge the Flying Sofa and move off without touching the wall. How we laughed, but only afterwards.

The following day it was my husband's turn. We set off for Ap Lei Chau and as we drove out of Shouson Hill Road he remarked that we needed petrol. We missed the first petrol station we saw but as we came down off a flyover he spotted another one and moved left across a solid double white line straight into the path of an oncoming ambulance with flashing blue lights. I yelled, the ambulance driver swerved, stopped and glared at my husband who drove meekly into the petrol station and drew up beside a waiting policeman who had witnessed the whole incident.
My husband was apologetic. The policeman was furious. When he demanded to see Hong Kong ID and his HK driving licence I held my breath for he doesn’t yet have one either. My husband took out his UK driver’s licence and calmly insisted he was allowed to drive on it for 6 months after arrival in Hong Kong. The children were very quiet in the back and I could see beads of sweat on his brow as he pressed his case. The policeman did not look convinced. He told us he could insist we report to the police station but he must have taken pity on us at the last minute and my husband was lucky to get away with a verbal caution for dangerous driving.

Once he’d gone we returned with huge relief to the task of filling up with petrol. The petrol attendants had seen and heard our exchange with the policeman on their forecourt and could barely disguise their scorn when we had to get out the User Manual to find out how to open the petrol cap.

Moving In

By the time I arrived at the house at 10am as arranged, the truck had already been emptied by swarms of Chinamen and our Allied Pickford boxes were neatly stacked in the parking space next to our front door. The mood was one of expectation and I unlocked the door quickly so they could get on.

Given that packing up the house in Putney had taken the best part of five days, including tea-breaks, moving us in to Shouson Hill Road was a breeze. A team of six giggling Chinamen brought the boxes upstairs at a run and were directed to the right rooms by the foreman who scribbled “boys bedroom” or “TV room” on the cartons in Chinese characters after a quizzical look at me.

The unpackers were like bashful school boys, very anxious to please as they padded round in their socks, smiling all the while as they piled boxes onto their backs and carried them up to the next floor. The similarity with school boys didn’t end there, however. Once they had finished and left I discovered that the Chinamen hadn’t yet learnt to lift the loo seat or even aim straight and the only downer on the day was that the downstairs wc was left looking as if one of the children had shaken up a fizzy pop bottle and undone the lid before scarpering.

It is interesting now to realise what I got wrong in the packing back in London. Whilst I had suspected that my digital radio would not be able to find R4 all the way out here I had imagined it would find me something of interest to listen to. However, it stubbornly displays “station not available” on its screen and has merely earned itself a place at the back of a cupboard. Equally useless are the radio signal alarm clock and the wireless voice router, not that I ever knew what the latter was for, even in London. My sheepskin coat is looking rather superfluous as we flounder about in temperatures of 32 degrees and my husband has questioned the need for stout brogues although we are assured it can fall below 15 degrees in January.

On the other hand we could have bought six times as many pictures. The bland gardenia coloured walls of our boxy, modern house stretch endlessly before us, crying out for large paintings where dado rails, picture rails, architraves and cornicing once broke up the available space in a Victorian town house. Where we have dared to bang a nail into virgin plaster our pictures look more like postage stamps on a vast landscape and so as yet remain largely unhung, standing dejectedly against their intended walls.

Air temperature, air flow and humidity control in the house have become recent obsessions. It’s always too hot, particularly on the top floor and at night and yet having the air-conditioning blasting away full time is too loud and too chilly for us all. We wondered if reducing the humidity might help and purchased a job lot of dehumidifiers which take the excess moisture out of the air but neither move it around nor cool it down. At the end of the day it seemed to be just one more electrical gadget humming away and generating heat simply by being on. I was rather sceptical about needing them at all until I kept one running in our bedroom with the wardrobe doors open and came back to find 20 litres of water had gathered in the water receptacle in the course of just 10 hours. In the meantime however, we have decided to get a fan and will hope that by blowing the warm moist air around we will all feel a little more comfortable at night.

Little could I have anticipated my new-found interest in Tupperware. Galvanised by a friend who said that she had watched the breakfast muesli move in her bowl one morning on discovery of an outbreak of weevils in her store cupboard, I decided that prevention was better than cure and bought a Tupperware container for everything from biscuits and rice through to flour. Space in the kitchen, as everywhere in Hong Kong, is limited and we no longer enjoy the luxury of a walk-in larder. Hence the 170 bottle capacity, built-in Eurocave wine store has been commandeered as a sort of Tupperware fridge and serves its purpose beautifully. Wine aficionados would be appalled at our misuse of this precious asset but I think there are a few bottles of NZ Sauvignon Blanc somewhere near the bottom and we can have both white wine and weevil-free Weetabix whenever we want.

Olympic Fever

Having temporarily shelved my burgeoning views on Tibetan Human Rights, I realised that I too wanted to be a part of “One World, One Dream” and “Riding High in Hong Kong, the Equine Capital” and thus I set out on the morning of 08.08.08 in search of tickets.

Everyone, it seemed to me, had chosen this auspicious day to get married and I had to dodge the photo opps of at least 7 weddings as I hurried down to the Chinese Travel Service on Connaught Road Central.

The expected crush and bundle was noticeably absent as I took my number and sat down to wait my turn. Looking around it became apparent that none of those queuing with me were in the least bit bothered about Olympic tickets but were waiting for air tickets and China visas to be issued at another desk

I did however notice the occasional blond pony-tailed hopeful sidling up to the “Olympic Ticket Redemption Desk” and grew nervous that supplies could be running out so promptly side-stepped the numbered system and asked if there were any tickets left for sale.

“Yes, four.”
“Only four?”
“Yes, for cross country. Last tickets.”
“Well, I’ll take four then.”

None of my UK Visa cards appeared to work in the Visa payment machine so without knowing the price I rashly said I’d pay cash before wondering just how much four Olympic tickets was going to set me back.

“Two hundred eighty four Hong Kong dollar.” Whilst my 15 times table is still not up to speed it didn’t take me too long to work out that that was less than £5 a ticket. Wow, 8.08.08 was turning into an auspicious day for me too.

The next day I had to make my way to the Mong Kok branch of the CTS on Kowloon-side to collect my booty after 3pm. Kowloon was heaving and made Hong Kong look positively sterile, calm and orderly. Its streets buzz with noise and activity, the air is heavy with the smell of fried pork and sweet dumplings. Shops explode out onto the pavement and air conditioning units drip on your head as you dodge the bamboo scaffolding and walk along wondering what exactly that food was, dried or cooked, you just passed by.

I duly collected my tickets and, as something of an afterthought, given that I had in fact bought the very last four Olympic equestrian tickets in Hong Kong the day before, asked if there were any left.

“Queue round corner.” I was informed, so once more I took a numbered ticket and sat down to wait. A little over an hour later I emerged clutching “best” tickets for both the team dressage Grand Prix and the team jumping final, both with medal ceremonies. Now riding very high indeed in Hong Kong, I returned across the harbour on the Star Ferry with the warm evening sun glinting off the glass towers of Hong Kong's water front, firmly convinced that Hong Kong was the only place to be.

My newly discovered enthusiasm for everything Olympian is, it seems, in stark contrast to the rest of Hong Kong which appears fairly indifferent to the events taking place here. Riding the empty train to the Cross Country event in the New Territories early in the morning there was a chummy atmosphere among the Brits who swapped tips and news on the horses and riders but the train was noticeably empty of Chinese.

One man, a veteran of five Olympics told us that at the dressage part of the 3-day eventing competition at Sha Tin the Chinese spectators had clearly been expecting to see something more than a few horses put through their paces.

At the first interval a good third got up and left, barely able to conceal their disappointment with the proceedings. A man interviewed on the evening news said he thought he'd bought tickets for the races and had been looking forward to seeing the action.

"Why isn't horse racing an Olympic sport?" asked my nine year old. Opening my mouth to answer I realised, as with so many of his questions, that I simply had no idea.

First Impressions

We are now in Hong Kong living in two serviced apartments (sheltered housing!) in the middle of this crazy metropolis waiting for our sea freight to arrive so we can move into our house on Shouson Hill. It's all a bit surreal. Whenever we step outside there appears to be a tidal wave of Chinese people coming our way and I feel every bit of my 3% minority status as a European. When a proportion of the tidal wave stops to point/giggle/aahhh/ruffle or photograph the Little Ones' blond hair it all becomes a bit overwhelming.

I've had a few forrays out and about to research a new lap top/phone/TV and order curtains for the house. It's incredibly safe on the streets and everyone is very helpful and friendly and it's all fascinatingly different from London. I feel like such a novice that I might as well have "new arrival" stamped on my forehead. Am thus far pretty baffled by the currency, my 15 times table not being up to speed, and realised that I'd managed to spend about £13 on a salami yesterday which none of the children then liked.

So far the kids have spent most of the time in either the hotel pool or the Shouson Hill Road pool and are totally sold on the place but this morning we woke up to typhoon level 8 and the place was like a ghost town with no public transport, shops all shut up and very few people turning up for work. All the while a gale raged outside and sheets of horizontal rain blew past our 13th floor apartment. Nothing I've not seen in the Hebrides but it seemed to bring HK to a standstill. We decided to see how far we could get from the apartment without emerging onto the street and did pretty well since all the shopping malls appear to be interconnected by covered walkways and tunnels but the game palled after a while since most things were shut. We were lucky to find an open HMV outlet so stocked up on DVDs and spent the afternoon watching Indiana Jones.

Grocery shopping is a challenge to say the least. I can either read nothing on the packet so am inclined to buy the wrong size of nappies or end up washing the clothes with fabric conditioner or else I'm getting Waitrose own brand which is comfortably familiar albeit rather out of place amongst all the dim sum and noodles. I am missing the British media and find that just now I am not very interested in reading the South China Post. The Pioneering Accountant is away in Vietnam and I've borrowed his laptop which is a lifeline. Without email and the internet I would be feeling very isolated. Am terribly jetlagged which doesn't help anything. Being tired puts me in bad spirits and I have had moments of intense homesickness, not helped by late night reading of Jilly Cooper's "The Common Years" about her time living and dog walking on Putney Common.

The kids have been great and think this is all a huge adventure. They even took the 12 hour flight in their stride and there was only one borderline moment when I realised the two year old was rubbing her breakfast butter into her arms like sun cream! Morale among the troops is high and we'll be fine once we're in our own place.