Christmas Eve is always a busy day for me. It involves making giblet stock, preparing the vegetables for tomorrow’s lunch, keeping the children occupied yet not over-excited, wrapping last minute presents, welcoming the visitors, feeding the flock several times over, making the stuffing, going to the crib service with the children, lighting the candles on the tree (a nod to our many Christmases spent in Germany) and then slipping off to midnight mass once everything is finished and the rest of the house is sleeping soundly.
This year I was feeling rather smug. Instead of a day in the kitchen armed with the peeler I had passed on detailed instructions to the Dream Team, namely Annie and her recently arrived younger sister, Veronica, aka Clarabel, as all readers of Thomas the Tank Engine will appreciate she just has to be called. We in the meantime spent a lovely day on a junk far out in the New Territories with Grandma and Grandpa feeling nostalgic and several friends feeling chilly.
We got home and got the tired children to bed, whereupon, by force of habit I thought I’d take a look at my prize organic imported turkey which had made the Pioneering Accountant wince when he paid for it yesterday afternoon. I should just add, at this point, that I am in a considerable minority for rolling up my sleeves and cooking Christmas lunch in Hong Kong. It is a public holiday and therefore, not unreasonably, helpers get the day off. With no-one to cook for them, many families opt for the carry-out Christmas dinner option and order the full Monty, turkey, trimmings and all, ready cooked and delivered by a caterer or one of the larger hotels. Others compromise by ordering the turkey cooked and reheating it and others go out to a hotel or restaurant for Christmas dinner. Many others just go home to mum, back in England.
The smell of giblet stock is one I associate with Christmas Eve and when I didn’t see either a pan or jug of it anywhere in the kitchen I asked Annie where she’d put it. “I threw it away, Ma’am.” She answered. “Oh,” I said, tight lipped, “What a shame.” Bugger, I thought, no gravy. Never mind, we’ve got stock cubes, and Bisto….
When I took the turkey out of the fridge in readiness for tomorrow’s roasting (I am a true disciple of Delia Smith) I couldn’t help feeling it didn’t look quite right. On closer examination I realised I was looking at a cooked turkey and I began to whether I had indeed ordered it raw and not subconsciously decided it would in fact be easier to order one ready roasted.
“What do you think, Veronica?” asked Grandma. “Don’t you think this looks cooked?”
“Yes Ma’am,” she said, “Annie boiled it, with the giblets, for two hours.” Then she giggled.
There are some situations when it is better to say nothing. I could have wept. I could have screamed. For Christmas lunch in Hong Kong we’ll be having cold, boiled turkey.
Happy Christmas to you all!
P.S. At 8.40pm we realised the shops would be open until 9 and seeing my dismay Grandma has rushed out with the Domestic God to save the day and buy us another bird. All will be well but there’s going to be an awful lot of turkey curry in this house!
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
Lights on, lights off
Term is over. We have limped over the finishing line and the children have, predictably, all developed coughs and colds. I go in search of a pharmacy and find that it is half western, half Chinese medicine. In the window of the Chinese half are various dried remedies, most of which I am unable to identify although I am a bit dismayed at the sight of a large tray of dried seahorses. Fortunately the cough remedy I am sold does not involve stewing seahorses.
Grandma and Grandpa have arrived for Christmas. Despite some anxiety that at the time of their arrival not a single loo in the house was functioning we are overjoyed to see them. We have a packed schedule and are busy showing them our favourite haunts besides one or two of their own. This is not their first Christmas in Hong Kong for thirty years ago they lived here too. From our front deck we can see the block of flats up on the Peak that was their home for three of the four years they spent here.
On Sunday evening we attended the service of Nine Lessons and Carols in St John's Cathedral. As the choir entered the silent Cathedral lay waiting, wreathed in darkness. And as the soloist sang out the opening verse of Once in Royal David's City a single flame lit the first of many candles, each held by a member of the congregation, and was passed along the rows, neighbour to neighbour, until the Cathedral shone out with the light of over 500 candles. Out of darkness comes light. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
The tall arched windows of the Cathedral stood open to the mild evening and with additional heating provided by the candles our two year old stripped down to her vest in protest that I had dressed her too warmly; old habits die hard. We heard the nine lessons including one in Tagalog, one in Cantonese and one in Mandarin, sung out the familiar carols and were amazed that our children managed to set neither each other nor their service sheets alight.
After the service, in a garden full of fairy lights beside the lovely old Cathedral we enjoyed mulled wine and mince pies in the lee of the HSBC building, the Bank of China Tower and AIG Tower. Old Hong Kong juxtaposed against new China. High on the tapered top of the AIG Tower an animated logo displays the building's name, occupier and joint owner. It stands today on the site of the first AIG office in Hong Kong which opened in 1930. The lights appeared to go out momentarily and the irony was not lost on us. Is this the end of the road for AIG in Hong Kong, just three years after the prestigious AIG Tower was opened? It was but a second's pause in Hong Kong's metropolitan light show and the lights of AIG lived to see another day, another night. And yet who can help but wonder how many more Hong Kong skyscrapers will be changing their names and their owners in the coming months of the new year?
Grandma and Grandpa have arrived for Christmas. Despite some anxiety that at the time of their arrival not a single loo in the house was functioning we are overjoyed to see them. We have a packed schedule and are busy showing them our favourite haunts besides one or two of their own. This is not their first Christmas in Hong Kong for thirty years ago they lived here too. From our front deck we can see the block of flats up on the Peak that was their home for three of the four years they spent here.
On Sunday evening we attended the service of Nine Lessons and Carols in St John's Cathedral. As the choir entered the silent Cathedral lay waiting, wreathed in darkness. And as the soloist sang out the opening verse of Once in Royal David's City a single flame lit the first of many candles, each held by a member of the congregation, and was passed along the rows, neighbour to neighbour, until the Cathedral shone out with the light of over 500 candles. Out of darkness comes light. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it.
The tall arched windows of the Cathedral stood open to the mild evening and with additional heating provided by the candles our two year old stripped down to her vest in protest that I had dressed her too warmly; old habits die hard. We heard the nine lessons including one in Tagalog, one in Cantonese and one in Mandarin, sung out the familiar carols and were amazed that our children managed to set neither each other nor their service sheets alight.
After the service, in a garden full of fairy lights beside the lovely old Cathedral we enjoyed mulled wine and mince pies in the lee of the HSBC building, the Bank of China Tower and AIG Tower. Old Hong Kong juxtaposed against new China. High on the tapered top of the AIG Tower an animated logo displays the building's name, occupier and joint owner. It stands today on the site of the first AIG office in Hong Kong which opened in 1930. The lights appeared to go out momentarily and the irony was not lost on us. Is this the end of the road for AIG in Hong Kong, just three years after the prestigious AIG Tower was opened? It was but a second's pause in Hong Kong's metropolitan light show and the lights of AIG lived to see another day, another night. And yet who can help but wonder how many more Hong Kong skyscrapers will be changing their names and their owners in the coming months of the new year?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
The Blame Game
Last week our eldest boy turned ten. It should have been a joyous day, a momentous arrival in the realm of double digits. Instead the birthday boy was subdued and when his Godfather rang from UK to wish him a happy birthday he commented to me that he sounded a bit down.
This was perceptive at the end of a telephone 5000 miles away and I congratulate my old friend on his levels of sensitivity. Right now, I could wish that our son’s teacher had even one fraction of that sensitivity but from where I stand, I might as well be wishing for a white Christmas.
On the eve of his birthday we received an email from the teacher. The missive contained a list of our son’s failings and the concluding paragraph stated, “With Calum turning ten tomorrow, it is an ideal time for him to take some extra responsibility by following instructions and showing how talented he is.”
Thus in full awareness of the date, our son’s teacher chose his birthday to make him turn over a new leaf. To this end he was kept in during first break and made to complete a homework task he had forgotten to hand in. During second break he was made to copy all the week’s homework assignments into his homework diary. Playing, having fun with friends and leaping for joy at turning ten were not on the agenda. “My worst day ever at school was my birthday.” he told me today with tears in his eyes.
Our eldest child is a bright, quirky lad with a delightful sense of humour. He is dreamy, disorganised, forgetful and infuriating at times, but no more, I believe than any other boy of his age. He is also chatty, curious and confident. Or was.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t like me Mummy.” What do I tell him? It could be for all of the above and more. It is a tough lesson for a young boy but one which we all have to face at some time. More worrying to my mind, is the problem the teacher is having in concealing his feelings from our son. Having been told by his teacher he is not capable of change our son has accepted this as fact and has, I fear, stopped caring. The lights have gone out and my wonderful inspirational boy has lost his way.
Our attempts to approach the teacher to discuss our son’s issues and learn how we might support both our son and his teacher have been rebuffed. Relationship building with either pupil or parents does not appear to be his forte. In desperation we approach a senior member of staff who tells us the teacher concerned has complained that our son is needy.
Needy.
Needy of some support and guidance in a new school several continents removed from his old one, perhaps?
Needy of some positive feedback for the concerted effort he is making to get things right?
Needy of a positive role model in his form teacher?
Or needy of some affirmation that despite the fact the bottom has fallen out of his small world, all will be well?
Yup, in his situation, I’d be needy too.
Our boy has not been handing in his homework. There are systems designed to help him do this, most of which involve check lists, ticks and signatures added along the way. We are so busy ticking, signing and checking that there is barely time to complete the homework itself which in the meantime assumes huge and scary proportions in my mind and presumably in that of my son. Who still forgets to hand it in. For this he gets into trouble. That much I understand. There is a reading record designed, I believe, to ensure that reluctant readers are working through 15 minutes of a book four times a week. Our book worm of a son is so busy reading that he forgets to record what he has read. For this he gets into more trouble. This I struggle with.
At a parent/teacher appointment last month which also happened to be my first face to face meeting with our son’s teacher he informed me that he believed our son to be an ADHD sufferer and that he had decided, henceforth, to treat him as a problem child. More check lists came home, more reminders to tick and sign. Besides being flabbergasted at the unprofessional presentation of this inaccurate diagnosis, I find myself frozen in the glare of the tick lists, stressed and anxious on our son’s behalf. He in turn is brave and stoical in the face of what has, to our minds reached unacceptable levels of unkindness. Our son is being bullied. By his teacher.
I won’t bore you with the details for they are many and repetitive. I’ll give just two examples of what my son is enduring in the name of the highest standards of education in a reputable international school.
Leaving your bag even slightly open is a class crime. Usually the class monitors patrol the pegs outside the classroom and point out to the criminal the error of his or her ways. Yesterday however, the teacher assumed the role of the bag police and brought just one bag into the class room. “Now who do you think this belongs to?” He asked of the pupils in tones heavily laced with sarcasm. My son identified the bag as his and was called to the front of the room. The teacher then asked the class if they could suggest ways to help his errant pupil to become more organised. In good faith every member of the class put up their hands and gave their ideas, two or three each. Once all the hands had been exhausted, the teacher asked again, just to make sure there weren’t any hesitant volunteers. More helpful suggestions were forthcoming. Shamed and humiliated my boy was allowed to return to his seat.
We can I suppose be thankful that he did in fact have a seat on that occasion for today it was removed. Our son was called to the front to apologise in front of the whole class for intentionally tripping up his teacher by leaving his chair too far out. His written work was finished on his knees on the floor at his desk.
I am in a tailspin, my thoughts as clear as the Kowloon horizon on a smoggy day. “Don’t complain, Mummy,” said our son to me on another jaw-dropping occasion. “He’ll only accuse me of playing the blame game.” Blame game? What in heaven’s name is that? Pupil guilty, teacher blameless, so don’t bother telling your parents?
We threw him a party at the weekend and under sunny blue skies took ten of his friends on a hike. We had a picnic lunch, searched for hidden treasure and played some hilarious games before returning home for tea and cake some four hours later. It was a joyful day and did, I hope, go some small way to restoring his faith not just in birthdays but in himself. I watched my ten year old son and I took in his delight at the books he received as birthday gifts. He is a phenomenal reader and his vocabulary is extraordinary. He is energetic and enthusiastic, well-mannered and good company. His conversation is probing and intelligent.
Later that evening we played together the complex strategy game he was given for his birthday. His concentration, understanding and grasp of the principles was remarkable. This is not a boy with attention deficit disorder. This is a boy who is uninspired by a formulaic and inflexible teacher; a boy who knows education can be better than this, who’d rather be reading a book than filling in yet another worksheet. This is a boy who when enthused and inspired will go to the ends of the earth for a teacher, a boy who just six months ago loved school.
How fragile is a boy’s love of learning and how quickly damaged it is. I find I am both saddened and angry. Sad that my boy is hurting so much. Angry with a teacher who has seemingly snuffed out my boy’s desire to please, who is down on him for forgetting to tick boxes or highlight words, and who has repeatedly reminded our son of his failings without ever once acknowledging his strengths.
This was perceptive at the end of a telephone 5000 miles away and I congratulate my old friend on his levels of sensitivity. Right now, I could wish that our son’s teacher had even one fraction of that sensitivity but from where I stand, I might as well be wishing for a white Christmas.
On the eve of his birthday we received an email from the teacher. The missive contained a list of our son’s failings and the concluding paragraph stated, “With Calum turning ten tomorrow, it is an ideal time for him to take some extra responsibility by following instructions and showing how talented he is.”
Thus in full awareness of the date, our son’s teacher chose his birthday to make him turn over a new leaf. To this end he was kept in during first break and made to complete a homework task he had forgotten to hand in. During second break he was made to copy all the week’s homework assignments into his homework diary. Playing, having fun with friends and leaping for joy at turning ten were not on the agenda. “My worst day ever at school was my birthday.” he told me today with tears in his eyes.
Our eldest child is a bright, quirky lad with a delightful sense of humour. He is dreamy, disorganised, forgetful and infuriating at times, but no more, I believe than any other boy of his age. He is also chatty, curious and confident. Or was.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t like me Mummy.” What do I tell him? It could be for all of the above and more. It is a tough lesson for a young boy but one which we all have to face at some time. More worrying to my mind, is the problem the teacher is having in concealing his feelings from our son. Having been told by his teacher he is not capable of change our son has accepted this as fact and has, I fear, stopped caring. The lights have gone out and my wonderful inspirational boy has lost his way.
Our attempts to approach the teacher to discuss our son’s issues and learn how we might support both our son and his teacher have been rebuffed. Relationship building with either pupil or parents does not appear to be his forte. In desperation we approach a senior member of staff who tells us the teacher concerned has complained that our son is needy.
Needy.
Needy of some support and guidance in a new school several continents removed from his old one, perhaps?
Needy of some positive feedback for the concerted effort he is making to get things right?
Needy of a positive role model in his form teacher?
Or needy of some affirmation that despite the fact the bottom has fallen out of his small world, all will be well?
Yup, in his situation, I’d be needy too.
Our boy has not been handing in his homework. There are systems designed to help him do this, most of which involve check lists, ticks and signatures added along the way. We are so busy ticking, signing and checking that there is barely time to complete the homework itself which in the meantime assumes huge and scary proportions in my mind and presumably in that of my son. Who still forgets to hand it in. For this he gets into trouble. That much I understand. There is a reading record designed, I believe, to ensure that reluctant readers are working through 15 minutes of a book four times a week. Our book worm of a son is so busy reading that he forgets to record what he has read. For this he gets into more trouble. This I struggle with.
At a parent/teacher appointment last month which also happened to be my first face to face meeting with our son’s teacher he informed me that he believed our son to be an ADHD sufferer and that he had decided, henceforth, to treat him as a problem child. More check lists came home, more reminders to tick and sign. Besides being flabbergasted at the unprofessional presentation of this inaccurate diagnosis, I find myself frozen in the glare of the tick lists, stressed and anxious on our son’s behalf. He in turn is brave and stoical in the face of what has, to our minds reached unacceptable levels of unkindness. Our son is being bullied. By his teacher.
I won’t bore you with the details for they are many and repetitive. I’ll give just two examples of what my son is enduring in the name of the highest standards of education in a reputable international school.
Leaving your bag even slightly open is a class crime. Usually the class monitors patrol the pegs outside the classroom and point out to the criminal the error of his or her ways. Yesterday however, the teacher assumed the role of the bag police and brought just one bag into the class room. “Now who do you think this belongs to?” He asked of the pupils in tones heavily laced with sarcasm. My son identified the bag as his and was called to the front of the room. The teacher then asked the class if they could suggest ways to help his errant pupil to become more organised. In good faith every member of the class put up their hands and gave their ideas, two or three each. Once all the hands had been exhausted, the teacher asked again, just to make sure there weren’t any hesitant volunteers. More helpful suggestions were forthcoming. Shamed and humiliated my boy was allowed to return to his seat.
We can I suppose be thankful that he did in fact have a seat on that occasion for today it was removed. Our son was called to the front to apologise in front of the whole class for intentionally tripping up his teacher by leaving his chair too far out. His written work was finished on his knees on the floor at his desk.
I am in a tailspin, my thoughts as clear as the Kowloon horizon on a smoggy day. “Don’t complain, Mummy,” said our son to me on another jaw-dropping occasion. “He’ll only accuse me of playing the blame game.” Blame game? What in heaven’s name is that? Pupil guilty, teacher blameless, so don’t bother telling your parents?
We threw him a party at the weekend and under sunny blue skies took ten of his friends on a hike. We had a picnic lunch, searched for hidden treasure and played some hilarious games before returning home for tea and cake some four hours later. It was a joyful day and did, I hope, go some small way to restoring his faith not just in birthdays but in himself. I watched my ten year old son and I took in his delight at the books he received as birthday gifts. He is a phenomenal reader and his vocabulary is extraordinary. He is energetic and enthusiastic, well-mannered and good company. His conversation is probing and intelligent.
Later that evening we played together the complex strategy game he was given for his birthday. His concentration, understanding and grasp of the principles was remarkable. This is not a boy with attention deficit disorder. This is a boy who is uninspired by a formulaic and inflexible teacher; a boy who knows education can be better than this, who’d rather be reading a book than filling in yet another worksheet. This is a boy who when enthused and inspired will go to the ends of the earth for a teacher, a boy who just six months ago loved school.
How fragile is a boy’s love of learning and how quickly damaged it is. I find I am both saddened and angry. Sad that my boy is hurting so much. Angry with a teacher who has seemingly snuffed out my boy’s desire to please, who is down on him for forgetting to tick boxes or highlight words, and who has repeatedly reminded our son of his failings without ever once acknowledging his strengths.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Ming Bling
We are besieged by Christmas decorations. Clusters of bells, tinsel and two enormous wreaths have sprung up on the garage gates. An army of poinsettia in lurid gold pots has been positioned along the driveway and outside the front doors where they stand like sentinels to the festive season. Fairy lights of red, gold and green blink from the railings and the garage entrance whilst silver baubles adorn the wall beside the drive. Overkill has been redefined.
The highlight was a visit from Father Christmas in his helicopter and a large crowd had gathered to see him land. The helicopter approached and whisked up such a cloud of billowing dust that each and every one of the spectators was rendered incapable of watching.
In search of some Christmas spirit and a poinsettia free zone we made our way to the St Stephen's Christmas Fete last Saturday where we were delighted to discover the essential bouncy castle as well as various stalls with homemade cakes, second hand books and games for the children.
The highlight was a visit from Father Christmas in his helicopter and a large crowd had gathered to see him land. The helicopter approached and whisked up such a cloud of billowing dust that each and every one of the spectators was rendered incapable of watching.Father Christmas emerged and waved briefly to the crowd before climbing into an open-top Porsche with two leggy elves and being whisked off to a far away grotto. That’s not Father Christmas, said our two year old. He hasn’t got a fat tummy. He hasn’t got a sleigh or any reindeer either, I was about to add, but thought better of it. This is Hong Kong after all, full of bling, helicopters and sports cars. And sleighs are so last century.
The fete continued under the warm winter sunshine and we continued to pick the grass out of our hair as we watched a funny man stretch a rubber glove over his head and balance a glass of water on his chin. Then came drummers and Chinese dragons and finally a rather elderly family of acrobats who juggled and spun plates and even managed a handstand or two, all with the speed and gentility befitting their age.
The fete continued under the warm winter sunshine and we continued to pick the grass out of our hair as we watched a funny man stretch a rubber glove over his head and balance a glass of water on his chin. Then came drummers and Chinese dragons and finally a rather elderly family of acrobats who juggled and spun plates and even managed a handstand or two, all with the speed and gentility befitting their age.Full of Christmas cheer we wandered off to the market to find a Christmas tree and selected a tall and bushy specimen. How will we get it home? wondered the Domestic God, as he surveyed our chosen purchase. They deliver, I told him, This is Hong Kong!
Sunday, December 7, 2008
A Joyful Noise
Last week was the school Christmas Concert. Having bemoaned the lack of Christian symbolism thus far in the run up to Christmas we were richly rewarded by an all singing, all dancing performance that contained two classes of Y01 angels in identical white satin nighties, two classes of Y02 shepherds and two classes of Y03 wise men resplendent in crowns and Chinese silk pyjamas; one third red, one third gold and one third midnight blue, all expertly and rapidly knocked up over the border in Shenzhen. Our seven year old was one such wise man and beamed throughout whilst he rapped along to ‘Destination Bethlehem, we had to try, Guided by nothing but that star in the sky.’
Musical accompaniment was supplied by the recorder group and the inaugural performance of the school’s orchestra in which our nine year old loudly and proudly played his trumpet, representing as he did the complete brass section of this fledgling orchestra. To remind us we were neither in Bethlehem nor London, Mary and Joseph wore shiny his 'n' hers dressing gowns decorated with Chinese characters whilst between them lay a baby doll in a Moses basket. They looked less than comfortable in their roles as new parents and did their utmost to resist any sort of recognition of their other half but sang like superstars into their microphones, eyes closed and faces turned heavenwards when their time came.
Whether it’s the innocence of children as they enact the wondrous story, blinking into the stage lights whilst they search for parents in the audience, or whether I am struck each year anew by the privilege of witnessing such moments of joy in childhoods that pass so swiftly, I do not know, but such events always move be to tears and I have learnt from experience to arrive with a good supply of tissues to hand.
Exactly a year ago at our eldest’s school carol service we had just returned from our initial look and see trip to Hong Kong. On hearing that we were likely to be off in the coming year a fellow mother and friend stood with me watching the sea of red blazers pour out of the church, bubbling with joy as the end of term approached. How can you leave? Won’t you miss all this? She asked. Yes, I thought, I’ll miss it for sure, but there’s more out there, of that I’m equally sure. This may be lovely, but it isn't everything.
Musical accompaniment was supplied by the recorder group and the inaugural performance of the school’s orchestra in which our nine year old loudly and proudly played his trumpet, representing as he did the complete brass section of this fledgling orchestra. To remind us we were neither in Bethlehem nor London, Mary and Joseph wore shiny his 'n' hers dressing gowns decorated with Chinese characters whilst between them lay a baby doll in a Moses basket. They looked less than comfortable in their roles as new parents and did their utmost to resist any sort of recognition of their other half but sang like superstars into their microphones, eyes closed and faces turned heavenwards when their time came.
Whether it’s the innocence of children as they enact the wondrous story, blinking into the stage lights whilst they search for parents in the audience, or whether I am struck each year anew by the privilege of witnessing such moments of joy in childhoods that pass so swiftly, I do not know, but such events always move be to tears and I have learnt from experience to arrive with a good supply of tissues to hand.
Exactly a year ago at our eldest’s school carol service we had just returned from our initial look and see trip to Hong Kong. On hearing that we were likely to be off in the coming year a fellow mother and friend stood with me watching the sea of red blazers pour out of the church, bubbling with joy as the end of term approached. How can you leave? Won’t you miss all this? She asked. Yes, I thought, I’ll miss it for sure, but there’s more out there, of that I’m equally sure. This may be lovely, but it isn't everything.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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