Blessed Relief

Help has arrived in the form of Annie the amah, otherwise known as Annie Apple by our 2 year old. Annie came recommended by friends whom she worked for in Manila. They have been anxious should it not work out but in my eyes Annie can do no wrong. She is my saviour and my redeemer. She has rescued me from the eternal round of washing, ironing and cleaning. She makes a mean moussaka and we now have fresh fruit salad every day for breakfast. I finally have time to spend with the children and am freed up enough to start enjoying Hong Kong.

Getting her here took an age. All instructions issued by the Philippines Consulate General and Hong Kong Immigration for the purpose of hiring a foreign domestic helper or FDH turned out to be relevant only for amahs who had previously worked in Hong Kong. Annie hadn’t. All the research, form filling and correspondence I had done on her behalf was for nothing.

I unearthed an agent who said she could help. She spoke excellent English so I went to meet her. I eventually located the World Champ International Employment Agency on the 11th floor of an unprepossessing building tucked away in a narrow road in downtown Hong Kong. On entering Room 1101 I found myself in a tiny internet café with upwards of 40 computer terminals on one side of the narrow aisle in which I stood. To my right was a long glass shop counter full of cut price gold jewellery, watches, earrings, chains and rings and behind that more shelves laden with souvenirs and gifts. Was this the right place? Absolutely, for the World Champ International Employment Agency doubles up as World Champ International Enterprises, providing services for the FDHs it assists in coming to Hong Kong; computer and internet for those wishing to email home and jewellery and gifts for them and their loved ones. Brilliant!

World Champ’s Director explained the process of hiring a Filipina helper, got me to write a letter to HK immigration explaining how dire my situation was and took on our case. We were rolling.

Some seven weeks later the day of her arrival dawned. I could barely contain my excitement. It was a Friday. Annie was expected at 18.40 and my husband was going to meet her at the airport. At 6pm the phone rang. It was the agent saying Annie had not cleared Philippine emigration and had not boarded the plane. Philippine officials had accused her of forging our agent’s letter of invitation and had refused her exit.

So what now, I asked? The agent said she had booked another ticket for Saturday. But what if she is refused again? We have to hope for a different official, was her reply. Maybe they’ll be kinder tomorrow. And what if they’re not? I wondered. What if there’s an official with a hangover, problems at home and a grudge against women leaving to work in Hong Kong? What then?

Saturday dawned and much of it was spent on the telephone. It emerged that the airport officials were demanding a new copy of the letter of invitation this time notarised by the Phil Con Gen in Hong Kong, a requirement which World Champ had not encountered before. She would not be on the Saturday flight either. Seeing the disappointment on my face the Pioneering Accountant announced that he would fly down to Manila to fetch her and that come hell or high water she would be here by Sunday.

It was gallant in the extreme but the necessary document could not be obtained until Monday at the earliest so in fact there was little point. We wired money, booked a third ticket and sent the notarised document by overnight courier on Monday night. And joy of joys, on Tuesday evening, after 43 helpless days, Annie the Angel stood in our kitchen, smiled at me, and started laying the table.

Postscript
To my dismay and somewhat to my shame I find I am not elated, not bouncing with re-found energy or raving about the joys of having a maid. In stead it feels rather as though I have run a marathon; a marathon not just of seven weeks but of seven months which started back in London, packing up and letting our home, organising the move, sorting out schools, bidding farewell to my old life and being a single mother of four while the Pioneering Accountant went ahead of us to Hong Kong. I can only compare the feeling with getting a cold the moment you stop working or falling ill on a long-anticipated holiday. You hang on in there for so long and then the moment you allow yourself to relax you get sick. Ill I’m not, but tired I am, and oh bliss, with Annie here wielding the iron I can at least start to catch up on some sleep.

Seven Random Things

Some weeks ago I was tagged or challenged by Nappy Valley a fellow blogger and cyberspace acquaintance to write seven random things about myself. Nappy Valley is, as I learned from her own seven things, a fellow Essex Girl who grew up in Hong Kong during the 1980s and now occupies my old life pushing a pram round a common in SW London.

So we have quite a lot in common, if you’ll pardon the pun. Except that she executed her piece remarkably swiftly, rejoicing in the fact that the challenge gave her something to blog about in an otherwise uninspired week. By contrast I find myself with an essay crisis of extraordinary proportions which has caused me to stick my head in the sand, discover writer’s block and lose almost all interest in blogging.

As I struggle to write something, anything, I’m going to assume that the family and friends for whom I started this blog already know enough about me and focus instead on Hong Kong. So, with the full weight of four months of first hand experience behind me, here goes!

1. I first came through Hong Kong in 1995 with my German boss, a dynamic, young entrepreneur who was looking to invest in China and build a factory for the wooden toys he was producing too expensively in eastern Germany. I didn’t warm to China and subsequently declined the opportunity to move to Ningpo with a sales and marketing role in his fast-growing business, leaving the firm soon afterwards. That ex-boss now employs 900 people to make his wooden toys. He has pioneered the use of bamboo in toy making as a greener alternative to wood and has won design prizes for his products. Just occasionally I wonder where I’d be now, had I stayed on. Instead I’ve done my bit by adding four toy consumers to the market place.

2. Before heading to China on that occasion, I stayed the night in Braemar Hill with a family friend who had first met my parents at a remote hospital in the Northern Transvaal, where my father was a missionary surgeon in the early 1960s. Her parents had been medics there too, working with TB patients in what was then Sekhukhuneland. As a girl she was taught to bake by my newly-married, young mother while the doctors held their clinics under trees far out in the bush. From South Africa her parents moved to Hong Kong where TB was rife due to poor sanitation and overcrowding partly due to the influx of immigrants fleeing Communist China.

3. I've recently read ‘The World of Suzie Wong’ by Richard Mason. A penniless young English artist takes lodgings in an inexpensive hotel on the Wanchai waterfront without realising that rooms there are more usually rented by the hour by British and American sailors. During his stay he gets to know the hotel’s bargirls and falls in love with the enigmatic Suzie Wong, herself a TB victim, whom he finally marries. Apparently it was this book which created the myth on which Wanchai's reputation was built but the book is also credited with challenging the hypocrisy of the prevailing western attitudes towards racial superiority, morality and mixed marriage in Asia. Fifty years on miscegenation wouldn't raise an eyebrow but I can't help feeling there might still be awkward silences at the in-laws' dinner table when news broke of the wife's former profession. Or am I out of date?

4. Whilst Wanchai is still the scene of Hong Kong’s thriving red light area, the girls who work the district are no longer Chinese but originate instead from Thailand and the Philippines. Suzie Wong's hotel would no longer be on the waterfront but several roads removed from the harbour where junks and sampans moored and unloaded their wares in the 1950s. Land reclamation on the island’s northern waterfront began in Hong Kong in the late 1860s and continues today. Most of the urban area of Hong Kong is in fact built on reclaimed land and one has to wonder if Hong Kong will be an island for ever as similar projects on the Kowloon peninsular squeeze the busy waterway of Victoria Harbour from both sides. I’ve heard said that a trip across the harbour on the Star Ferry is no longer as exciting as it used to be as it is now over in so very few minutes.

5. On the roads, in the car parks and private garages of Hong Kong Island Bentleys, Aston Martins, Rolls Royces, Ferraris, Lamborghinis and Maseratis are all in evidence. It is extraordinary when, considering Hong Kong’s narrow, steep and winding roads and the frequency with which one gets stuck behind a lumbering double-decker bus, it is unusual to reach speeds of anything over 40 km per hour. I have slightly more sympathy with the open top varieties for, if ever there was a climate for cabriolet-cruising then surely it is here and you don’t need to go particularly fast to feel the wind in your hair. Sunday morning is promenading time. Just as Victorian gents might once have strolled along the waterfront or Praya in years gone by to show off a new suit or a new wife the modern day gent takes his sports car out early along the island’s south side or up to the northern New Territories for the rare experience of anything over third gear.

6. I predict that a number of those cars will be up for sale over the coming months. To ignore the effects of the economic downturn and the global financial crisis on Hong Kong would be to give the false impression that we are living in a bubble. Far from it. China has revealed that its economy is expected to grow by 7.5% in 2009, down on the expected 9% and that the effects of global recession are likely to be far worse than was initially thought. Fewer Chinese imports are being bought around the world leading to factory closures and widespread job losses. I hope my toy-manufacturing ex-boss will be OK. The ex-pat community of Hong Kong is undoubtedly affected and the one conversation to be heard repeated over and over again is, ‘Will you be all right?’ or ‘Is your job safe?’ The fact of the matter is that nobody knows.

7. Christmas is coming, though it’s hard to believe. Any preparation I have done is way behind my usual efforts as it still feels like the summer holidays. It is hard to get into the mood when its 29 degrees outside and you are building sandcastles on the beach. I did have an exploratory foray last week in search of some toy shops, feeling as I did, that the children might not accept my explanation that Christmas wasn’t going to happen this year as Mummy hadn’t got her head round the fact it was already December. The decorations are up in the shopping malls and on sale in the shops where I have spotted baubles, tinsel, reindeer, Father Christmas, polar bears, Christmas trees and even the occasional angel. Noticeably absent was any sign of the Christ child. China is not a Christian country and most of Hong Kong’s citizens are followers of Buddhist, Taoist and Confucian faiths which would explain the absence of Christian symbolism. And yet Hong Kong is busy preparing for a festive holiday; a party to which the baby Jesus seemingly hasn’t been invited.

As Time Goes By

An old friend from our seven years in Bad Homburg was in Hong Kong last week in his new role as Director of Marketing for a German manufactory of exclusive hand crafted mechanical timepieces – that’s wristwatches to you and me. I am not referring here to any old watches for these beautifully fashioned works of art are so precious that only 5,000 pieces are made each year.

On Saturday evening we were invited to join a workshop to try at first hand the German watch making experience, followed by dinner. The invitation directed us to a beautiful neo-gothic style building known as Béthanie perched on a hill looking down over Pokfulam. Béthanie is now the landmark heritage campus of the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts, but was originally built in 1875 by the Missions Etrangères de Paris and was used by them for a century as a sanatorium. Restoration began in 2003 and the new home to the HKAPA School of Film and Television now includes performance venues, an exhibition hall, a chapel and the museum of Béthanie itself. For the night we were there, however, it had been transformed into a watch making manufactory with three studios laid out for master classes in watch making, polishing and finishing and engraving.

The watch making class saw us attempt to use fine hand tools to remove a ruby from the balance cock of a watch and then replace it. Jewels, we learnt, are used in watches to reduce friction between moving parts. Next we tried removing a minute screw from the rim of the balance wheel. A special tool was needed to hold the head of the screw which was way too small for the clumsy grip of thumb and forefinger. Sneeze and your pieces were gone. The tiny jewels and parts weigh next to nothing. And the parts we had before us on our desks but could barely see were actually some of the larger components of watch making.

I wondered whether using robots wouldn’t give better results. The master watch maker was far too polite to say, well in your case, probably yes, but patiently explained that the dexterity of the “mind’s tool” is far superior to computer-controlled machines and that no mechanism in the world is capable of working with such flexibility, measure and deliberation as the human hand. I looked at my own pair with new found respect.

We moved on to the polishing workshop. The polishing and finishing department is the second largest in the manufactory after the watch making itself. Here I was sure we would be given machines to file and polish the tiny parts. I couldn’t have been more wrong. We pressed a minute piece from the inner workings into a small chunk of soft wood with the help of a clamp and two brass discs. The wood became a holding tool. Then we flat-polished the miniature piece, moving the wooden holder in slow figure of eight movements on a special surface on the desk in front of us all the while trying to ensure the pressure was balanced uniformly to prevent skew. Only once the Meister was satisfied with our work were we allowed to move from one apparently smooth polishing surface to the next imperceptibly smoother one to continue refining our work.

Next came engraving. The master engraver who heads up this department invited those who were wearing one of these precious watches to hand them over so he could identify which of his seven member team had engraved their watches. The watches are not signed by their engravers but he could tell from the style of their craftsmanship alone. A Chinese gentleman made us all laugh when he passed his watch forward and said in a stage whisper behind his hand, Shenzhen copy, I wonder if he’ll spot it. We attempted to engrave an initial onto a piece of brass far larger than anything that would go in a watch. Our efforts were botched, heavy handed and generally inconsistent. They didn’t offer me a trainee contract but it was a fascinating experience all the same.

At dinner I was placed between two proud owners of these fabulous watches. To my right was a charming collector. Time pieces are his passion but to date his collection is down to 35. He sometimes sells two or three of his watches to buy the latest addition to his collection, he explained. He collects them as others might collect sports cars, art or fine wine but he doesn’t always tell his wife when he buys a new one. A watch is, after all, the only jewel a man can really wear he said. Tell that to P. Diddy I thought.

For me, however, the best part of the evening was chatting to the proud craftsmen who had demonstrated their skills to us. In a previous life I was an EFL teacher in Saxony in the former East Germany and lived in the foothills of the Ore Mountains not far from the small town where these watches are made. I arrived not long after German reunification. It was an incredible time to be there, living a piece of history in the midst of a nation under reconstruction. Despite the initial euphoria at the fall of the Berlin Wall long term unemployment was on the increase and the region and its people were downcast and faced great uncertainty. Many students in the school where I taught were required to retrain in order to qualify for their unemployment benefits. Most were women and amongst them were one time fork lift truck drivers or crane operators now starting over as bi-lingual secretaries or travel agency clerks.

In 1990 the great grandson of the watch making firm’s original founder returned to his home town in the Ore Mountains and established the company a second time 145 years to the day after his great grandfather’s pioneering act. The firm now employs 500 people. I am nostalgic about the years I spent in Saxony and I rejoice in every success story that emerges from within its borders. Hand crafted precision time pieces is one such story.

Taipei Weekend

We have just returned from a weekend staying with friends in the Republic of China (Taiwan). We flew on Friday afternoon and arrived in the dark and in the rain. This is becoming a habit but perhaps it is a test of our staying power. We were met by a minibus which took us along ten-lane highways groaning with traffic, into the capital, through downtown Taipei and up to the northern suburbs.

It was a good thing our friends had insisted on the bus. Even the driver struggled to find their address and had we hired a car we might be there still, surrounded by swarms of mopeds, trying to navigate a city where numbered lanes lead off the roads and numbered alleys from the lanes in ever decreasing blocks. As we speak not a word of either Mandarin or Taiwanese asking for help would have been tricky. We drove past neon signs advertising the wares of the shop units beneath. One of many ladies’ outfitters was called Wanko. The brightest green lights were arranged radially above elevated stores consisting of a single small room with a large picture window where scantily dressed ladies of the night perched on bar stools looking rather bored.

Passing a vast Chinese-style hotel standing proud above the river, a little over-painted in gold, red and green, we headed up the hill where the buildings grew quickly less dense and where thick vegetation crept down the steeply banked roadsides.

We stumbled into our friends’ home, a wide low house with a garden, filled with beautiful mementoes of their stays in Hong Kong, Penang, Colombo, Mumbai and Manila and travels through Vietnam, Laos and Korea. His work moves them on every two to three years. We met them in Germany and a cuckoo clock struck hourly, and somewhat incongruously, in the kitchen as a reminder of their one European sojourn. There was a carpet-like lawn where frogs hopped about in the evening rain and we were happy to be amongst friends.

The following morning we went up Taipei 101. This is officially still the tallest building in the world, until a taller one opens shortly in Dubai. We had barely seen its lights on our drive through the city the previous evening due to the low cloud but the day had dawned bright and clear and the structure was now to be seen towering over Taipei’s relatively low-rise cityscape. Taipei 101 was modelled on the Chinese pagoda we thought, but our nine year old had done his homework and said it was inspired by a bamboo stalk, a symbol of learning and growth. Actually we were both right. The repeated segments recall pagodas, bamboo and a stack of ancient Chinese ingots or money boxes representing abundance. The building is rich in symbolism: The height of 101 floors commemorates the renewal of time: the new century that arrived as the tower was built (100+1) and all the new years that follow (January 1 = 1.01). It symbolizes high ideals by going one better than 100. It also represents the spot where the tower stands: 101 is the postal code of Taipei's international business district.

We went up in a lift which grew dark as stars illuminated the ceiling. Was this to give us the feeling we were going into space, I wondered as the lift took off at a speed of 1010 metres per minute. I only know because a display on the lift wall told me so. Our stomachs didn’t have time to wobble for all of a sudden we were on the viewing platform on the 88th floor, still 13 floors from the top but the outdoor platform on the 91st floor was closed for renovation and I for one was quite relieved. Our friends remember the business district of Taipei from their first posting here 20 years ago when it was still paddy fields. Next to the tower is a hangover from this era in the shape of a rather untidy yet charming field of allotments, lying cheek by jowl with the banks and financial institutions. From the top the grid system that houses 3 million inhabitants can be clearly seen, as can the city parks and the wide swathes of greensward which line the newly sanitised riverbanks and provide paths for cycling and space for sport. Inside the tower is a huge steel pendulum suspended from thick twisted cable which hangs from the 92nd to the 88th floor and is the largest damper sphere in the world. The pendulum sways to offset movements in the building caused by strong gusts of wind. I’m not sure I fully understood the engineering detail but I did gather that in strong winds the top of the tower can move up to a metre at which point I felt it was time to go back down.

Taxis took us to lunch where our friends ordered dumplings in fluent mandarin and the children watched them being rolled, filled, pinched, twisted and steamed by a human conveyor belt. The taxi drivers are stricter than in Hong Kong and only allow four in each car. Our driver had black teeth and his gums were stained red whilst the brown hairy remains of chewed and spat betel nuts sat in a plastic cup between us which I eyed with distaste. Betel nut is a mild stimulant and is sometimes chewed with tobacco leaves for the added effect of the nicotine. Our driver took a fresh nut from a bag and started chewing as he drove. It is not illegal but I found the habit disconcerting and especially so when we entered an ill-lit underpass and sped towards the car in front whose single functioning rear brake light disguised its actual speed. My right foot hit the floor and both palms reached for the dashboard before the betel-chewing driver deigned to slow the car.

Our friends told us about the betel-nut beauties, a sight unique to Taiwan: young women who sell betel nuts and cigarettes from brightly lit glass enclosures while wearing revealing clothing. So those were my misunderstood ladies of the night from the previous evening, but why the scanty clothing? The arguments range from exploitation of these agricultural and working class girls to self-empowerment: young women with few resources who improve their lot by employing a marketing technique that requires confidence. The girls prepare the nuts and take them to the truck drivers who pull up outside their kiosks. Exploitation or self-empowerment aside, I couldn’t help feeling it might be a bit chilly.

Taiwan is further north than here and was noticeably colder than Hong Kong. That afternoon we drove on further up into the hills to the Buffalo Meadows where, true to the name, buffalo roam the rolling green hills amidst the wild pampas grass high above Taiwan’s capital city. The children hid behind the huge clumps of grass and ambushed the adults as we wandered up the hills. It was stunningly beautiful but as the sun slipped behind the hills and the clouds descended I grew cold for the first time since leaving Europe and began to think of replacing my shorts and t-shirts with jeans and long sleeves. That evening we saw the tired children in to bed and slipped out for a curry and the new Bond film. To say that this is what the English do, far from home on a Saturday night would be unfair to our well-travelled, cosmopolitan hosts who are so very at home in Asia, and yet on this occasion it hit the spot.

Sunday found us at the Martyrs’ Shrine in Taipei where we were fortunate to witness the Changing of the Guard – a hilariously drawn-out, meticulously choreographed performance by soldiers in camp uniforms, platform-heeled boots and shiny tin-pot helmets. So laboured were the steps that getting anywhere would have taken forever. No wonder they lost, said the Pioneering Accountant. The children were thrilled and marched alongside only to be moved aside by the black suited minders that bemused us by seemingly safe-guarding the armed National Guard in ill-fitting patent leather shoes and shabby trousers.

We left ROC (Taiwan) feeling we must return with more time. It is China with an alternative post-1949 history, protective of its own traditions and cultural history, once provincial, now with a distinctly national feel, and yet fully in the shadow of its huge neighbour. The People’s Republic of China maintains that it is the legitimate government of China, of which Taiwan is a renegade province. Taiwan constitutionally claims sovereignty over mainland China. The acceptance or rejection of this One-China principle is the major factor determining relations between mainland China or the People’s Republic and the Republic of China or Taiwan.

A recent a visit by the most senior Chinese Communist Party official to go to Taiwan since 1949 was widely reported by the press here as the two governments signed agreements on charter flights, maritime shipping and cooperation on food safety issues. The coming together of the governments is a sign of the times as both countries struggle to overcome economic slowdown. Meanwhile Taiwan’s ex-president Chen Shui-bian is on hunger strike in protest at what he sees as his successor’s policy to forge closer links with mainland China. He is currently in jail on corruption allegations.

We arrived back to a warm sunny Hong Kong afternoon and as we made our way home after a happy weekend it dawned on me that it really was home we were going to and that I was glad to be there.

Escape

We went to Phuket for half term. Judging by the number of children the boys recognise in the pool a few other Hong Kong families have had the same idea. For us it is a well-timed get away, just the break we need with four days in the sun and lots of sleep.

Except that we arrive in the rain; heavy tropical rain at the tail end of the monsoon season. As the plane descends through thick cloud and emerges into a grey, blustery Thai evening we all hold our breath.

Our hotel is sited in acres of lush tropical garden on the shores of Mai Khao Beach and its low lying villas are largely hidden amongst the palm trees. I am taken aback by the quantities of green space and the fresh sea air. Despite the rain the atmosphere is tranquil and the gardens are stunningly beautiful. As we wander along the winding paths I recognise birds of paradise, frangipani, bougainvillea and huge water lilies in the lakes but there are other flowers and trees I could not imagine, much less name.

We lie by the pool under hot grey skies. The children spend all day in the water and hardly notice the sudden heavy showers of rain which take us by surprise. Adults wrapped in warm towels huddle under umbrellas meant for sun while their offspring stay in the water, unable to get any wetter.

We eat well, we go to bed early and we sleep late. Buffet meals suit the children’s varying tastes and they return to our table with plates piled hight with the strangest combinations of food and not a vegetable in sight but as long as I am not having to prepare it I don’t care. They are content and so are we.

On our second morning I miss the sunburst and slip off to the spa, where a silent woman with magical hands works miracle cures into my tired face and has me believe she’s smoothing away the lines. She washes my feet and massages my head to the sound of gentle music and tropical birdsong. In the distance I can hear the sound of the waves and my spirits lift. One of her unguents sets on my face and she peels it off with a resounding snap, like a rubber glove. I smile in my semi-sleep. The laughter lines are still there after all.

We are away for Halloween. I spend an afternoon helping the Little Ones colour in bats to decorate head bands. Our two year old wants hers in pink and purple, blue and yellow. As they bob about on thick orange pipe-cleaners above her head they look pretty but not so very bat-like. A children’s party is laid on with Trick or Treat for great swarms of children around the hotel’s boutiques and restaurants. It is a blissfully warm evening. I don’t have to buy a single treat, cut a pumpkin or make a costume and I can’t say I mind.

By the third day the rain has moved on and it is hot and sunny. A man brings a baby elephant to the beach and a small crowd gathers. The elephant poses for photograhps and accepts money in its trunk to put in its driver’s pocket. For bananas and soya milk, he tells us. Our nine year old clambers onto the elephant’s back and the four year old has a turn but doesn't like it. The others hover at a safer distance and when our two year old spots the elephant returning along the beach she runs to me crying, elephant going eat me.

On our last day I swim in the Andaman Sea. The drop into the water is sudden and steep and within seconds I am out of my depth. Our eldest comes onto the beach to join me. The water is still stormy from the recent windy weather and the waves toss me back on the beach, tumbling me through the sand as I swim to meet him. We laugh as the waves throw us about and we are left with sand in our swimsuits but the water is stronger than us and we leave the waves with banged heads and scraped knees.

Returning to Hong Kong, I wonder if it will seem like home. I am pleased to see our pictures on the walls and to be back in my own bed but the following morning Hong Kong is grey and smoggy once more. And on our little deck a single bird of paradise has bloomed to remind me of that exotic, dream-like garden.

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe....

It's been almost four weeks of help-less in Hong Kong and I reflect on progress so far. With apologies to Eric Carle and his Very Hungry Caterpillar;

On Monday my four year ironed a lone football sock. The synthetic sock disintegrated into a green and black mess which stuck to the ironing board and wrote off the iron.

On Tuesday my four year old found the chocolate cake I had baked cooling in the kitchen. He took two large bites out of each half and left the rest for us.

On Wednesday my four year old watered the plants in the yard. He also watered his sister, the windows and the dry washing.

On Thursday my four year old found scissors in my desk drawer. He used them to cut holes in the mattress protector on the guest bed.

On Friday after getting repeatedly lost in a part of town I do not know, I put my head in my hands and may have been heard to mutter, “Sometimes I hate Hong Kong.”

“Sometimes I hate you.” said my four year old.

On Saturday my four year old cut the plug of my mobile charger from its wire. Fortunately it was not plugged in at the time. That would have given him a shock.

On Sunday my four year old went missing at rugby practice. My husband found him eventually in a hole 2 metres deep and part of a disused army assault course at the edge of the rugby field. He was yelling for help and had taken off his socks and shoes to throw up in the air in hope of someone noticing.

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I am no expert but you don’t need to be a child psychologist to work out that my youngest boy is crying out for attention. This my sunniest boy, charming, confident and funny is hurting inside and he’s angry. I assume it’s with me. Mother’s always do.

One day, on his return from nursery he seems unusually upset. I ask what’s eating him and after smouldering in a corner for some minutes he suddenly throws up his hands and says with passion, “I just don’t know what it’s all about!” I have put him into the bilingual class (Mandarin/English) of his pre-school assuming this was the best thing I could do to help him integrate into his new life here. As far as I understood they were learning to count in Mandarin, sing the odd song and learn some greetings. Now I feel like a horrid pushy mother who not only expects her four year old to move seamlessly from London to Hong Kong but also wants him to speak fluent Mandarin by the time he’s five.

We seem to be locked in a downward spiral. Searching for a way to break the cycle, to help him restore faith in his ability to do right, I praise him for getting his shoes on and in that moment he pinches his younger sister in the face, wrenches her beloved muslin from her grip and runs off. I am consumed with guilt that it is all my fault and that he just doesn’t want to be here.

I ask him if he likes Hong Kong and he says he misses his bed. He misses the trampoline and he misses Tom and Josh and Nick.

At home my four year old and I would snuggle down together most afternoons for a nap after lunch. Unlike his siblings, all elbows, knees and heels, he would merge his soft little body into mine and thus we would fall asleep, I for an hour, he for two. I awake to sound of his snoring, spread out like a sunbathing bear and tip-toe downstairs. On waking his first request is to go on the trampoline.

In the London garden we had a huge trampoline dug in at ground level. In no danger of falling off, my littlest boy would crawl down the garden as a baby and would bounce on his knees long before he could either stand or walk. As he grew up he would bounce out his frustrations with the world, enjoying the space he had to himself before the older boys got home from school. Then he would bounce with his brothers and the neighbourhood kids.

In my new role as Mrs Mop, our shared afternoon nap has become a thing of the past. He will still sleep after lunch, when I’m not dragging him and his sister into the car to collect the older boys from their after school activities, that is. When we get home we stumble in, tired, hungry and fractious. There is homework to be done and the older boys move centre stage and voice their needs while the younger two are side-lined for a while.

To keep some sort of order at home in this help-less time I rely ever more on the electronic babysitters of TV and computer. Homework begins to suffer. I don’t have as much time for any of them as I would like. Everyone is compromised. I feel like the old woman who lived in a shoe. She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.

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And yet, I must do something for my unhappy four year old. He doesn’t need a domestic goddess, he needs his Mummy. Today after lunch I snuggle down with him to sleep and stroke his arm as he snuffles gently beside me. Water is his thing and since we arrived in Hong Kong he has thrown off his armbands and jumped in to show me he can swim. After an initial sharp intake of breath I see he really can and I rejoice with him.

It is half-term. We go to the beach and he swims in the sea. I leave the ironing undone and we spend a morning at the pool. We take sandwiches on the Star Ferry and go to a museum. The next day we visit my New Friend. She is musical and her three girls all play instruments. My four year old discovers a small cello, sits himself down and plays and plays to his heart’s content. The next day we have friends of his over to play. Seeing that his Mummy is building a tower that others are enjoying he kicks it down in a rage and the other children sidle off with their mothers. We go down to the pool and I watch my little fish dive down angry and rise up smiling.

This week at rugby my little boy found a tiny snake (dead) and put it in his collecting pot. He showed the other boys and both his street cred and his self-esteem rocketed sky high. And this afternoon, he put his head against my thigh and his arm around my legs and said, “I love you Mummy.”

Cool

I think. It might. Be getting. Cooler........

Don't get me wrong. We are not talking autumnal chill here. I still can't bear the thought of long trousers but temperatures are down a significant 3 or 4 degrees to 29. And it's quite pleasant.

The other day as I walked past, next door's maids were using hair dryers to dry the freshly washed, long-haired, white dog which lies elegantly behind glass in the air-conditioned interior of our neighbour's home. He is a Samoyed, a breed used originally for herding reindeer and pulling sledges. The obvious choice for Hong Kong.