At the official reception we listened to two brothers playing the violin, and a 12 year old girl who gave a brilliant performance on a zheng, a multi-stringed Chinese instrument.   She represented Hong Kong at the 2006 Llangollen Eisteddfod

Kate started work on Monday as an adjudicator at the Hong Kong Schools Music Festival, having just one day to recover from the 13 hour flight, and after very little sleep in a strange bed.                                

By Wednesday evening she was beginning to

surface, having by then listened to 360 kids playing their grade one and grade two pieces, with the good ones countable on one hand.     Then, on Thursday, she heard 22 performances of a Schubert Sonata, three of them ‘magical’.

                 At the end of each class she poses for photos with contestants, mums, teachers and sundry other dignitaries, as part of the job.     Kate is one of 31 adjudicators who will hear 167,000 entrants during the five weeks of the Festival.

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I have worked in two schools, the Korean International which was something of a challenge with amazingly unresponsive teenagers, and at Peak International School with delightful children and friendly welcoming teachers.    In each Peak class there were kids from at least a dozen countries, all learning together and finding that we are really all the same, no matter where we hail from.    What a wonderful grounding for an adult life in our increasingly cosmopolitan world.   I think they are very privileged, as I was in being able to work there.        Stories can be a bridge between cultures, showing that people of all nations are very similar with much the same problems and wishes and fears and ambitions.     Finding that people whom we thought were different enjoy the same stories as we do, helps to bring us closer.

The hotel is full of ‘flunkies’.    There can be as many as four between the lift and the outside door and if like us, you’re not too partial to being flunked and try to escape without assistance, they jostle each other and you for the privilege of getting to the door handle first.

The food in the hotel is ample and edible but a visit to the local markets can make you cautious.   To advertise the fish as fresh is an understatement as it’s often flipping about on the slabs.   At one stall a live eel was being cut into pieces to fill someone’s shopping bag.     Not to our taste, but when overseas you accept what goes on because there’s nothing you can do to change it.    And is what happens any worse than fish dying a slow death after being dropped from nets into the hold of a Western trawler?

Not all shopping is distressful.  Kate wants new curtains and, while rushing from one adjudicating venue to another, found some material at up-market China Arts and Crafts.   It cost about a million pounds a metre but wasn’t quite right so she’s looking for something better.    Fortunately, working hard for six days a week, she doesn’t get much time for shopping.

Every morning someone asks if we have any laundry to which they can attend.   After looking at the laundry list (1GBP for a handkerchief) Kate decided she could do our own, and now does the washing in the bath.   As a reward she blew 65p on a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk, which has nearly all gone.     I took the torn trousers to a local laundry, wanting them to be clean when they went to the tailor for mending.   I got them back two days later, and found that the seam had been repaired, at no extra charge.

Each day we receive a free copy of the South China Morning Post, a quality newspaper filled with all the joyful news we get back at home – murders, political intrigue, international disputes, famine, atrocities and the rest.

In the ever-changing HK landscape, some things remain reassuringly the same.   The old Star Ferry still chugs across the water on its ten minute trip between the Island and Kowloon, for $HK2, or 13p, with wrinklies traveling free.     Sadly, however, a decision was made to demolish the old landing stages which have seen historic arrivals and departures.       After the pier at Central was removed the public outcry was such that the wreckers were sent home.

I’m working in Guangdong for the British Council for ten days later this month, and went to China Travel Service for a visa.   Later that day I discovered that I’d lost my passport and spent time visiting shops in which I might have dropped it.    Finally I returned to CTS, emptying my bag on the counter to find the receipt, only to be reminded that the passport had been retained by them, to be collected with the visa a couple of days later.    

On reaching the hotel I discovered that the mobile phone was missing, and searched everywhere for it.    A phone call the following day revealed that it had been left on the China Travel Service counter.    I know what they say about getting old, but I’d rather blame other things, like delayed jet-lag or pollution.

Kate, somehow, doesn’t need excuses.    She’s managed this first week and still has energy for a trip today (Sunday).   We’re going to tour ‘The Land Between’, the rural area between Hong Kong and China proper, largely untouched by the incredible development on the Island and Kowloon.           This is a free treat provided by the Festival, but an even greater joy is the opportunity to compare notes with other adjudicators at meal times.   One of them has told us where to go in China for bargain curtain material, so maybe we’ll return home with some money.

On the way to the meeting place we saw the tail-enders in the Hong Kong Marathon, finishing in five hours plus.     Earlier in the week there were warnings of the danger of running in a heavily polluted environment, and attempts made to call the event off.   The marathon went ahead, and over 6,000 had to be given first aid.

We also passed some of the 300,000 Philippine girls who work here, as maids for Hong Kong families.   Their day off is Sunday, when they gather in many spots to tape down cardboard sheets on which they set up their temporary ‘home’.    They bring primus stoves, food, playing cards, and messages from home to share with their pals.

The Land Between is that area between the northern edge of Kowloon and the border of ‘mainland’ China, although it is all mainland with no physical division between the two, apart from a short river.    This area is by no means all rural, as several major towns have sprouted up in recent years, such as Sha Tin, Tai Po, Tsuen Wan and Tuen Mun.    However, we kept mainly to the countryside which is quite dramatic in its close juxtaposition to the new developments.     Huddled round the base of a skyscraper can be hovels surrounded by banana plantations.    Close one eye and you’re in the centre of a vibrant modern city.      Change eyes and you’re deep in the lush beauty of an unspoiled wilderness.    We were advised not to pick the wild flowers, all of which are protected by law.

Our Chinese guide was Bruce, who was most informative.   First stop was the Yuen Yuen Temple which was crowded as this was the main day of the Chinese New Year and also the local equivalent of Valentine’s Day.   Hoards of people were lighting long tubes which they stood in trays of sand.   They also threw prayers into an incinerator so that the smoke, and hence their wishes, would reach their gods.    We couldn’t help thinking that not only their prayers, but also their money, was going up in smoke.    Bruce remarked that while the Chinese seem very Westernised in their dress and manners, they remain very Eastern on the inside.

We learned that, anxious to develop trade links and maybe to make it easier to get to the casinos, locals are planning a 50 kilometre bridge from Hong Kong to Macau.    As the route will go underground in a couple of places it won’t be all bridge, but knowing the Chinese it’s bound to be incredible.    There really seems to be no limit to their horizons, as anyone who has landed at Chek Lap Kok, which used to be two mountainous islands, will know.   They had universities hundred of years before Oxford and Cambridge were thought of, printed from moveable type centuries before Gutenberg, and explored large chunks of the world before Columbus was born.   A mere 50 kilometre gap is nothing!

We saw our first dogs on this trip, in the rural areas.    We hadn’t seen a dog or a cat, tame or feral, in Hong Kong city, although we’ve been told that some people have them.  

Bird fanciers here take their feathered friends for a walk.  As the birds remain in their cages, however, it’s more exercise for the owner than the budgie.

We visited a small village built in a traditional style, near the border with mainland China.     Most of the 300 inhabitants are elderly, as the youngsters have left for work elsewhere.     When they die, the village will die.  Several abandoned houses have already fallen into decay, the absent doors and windows enabling one to examine the interiors (ladders to the first floor etc) without peering into occupied properties.

Everywhere we go, something happens to show us what a small world we live in.   One member of the group, on learning that we live in Bedfordshire, mentioned a friend, Kath Dixon.     When looking for deputies to teach her students during our absence, Kate was given Kath’s name and discussed the idea with her!   Incidentally, by Saturday evening Kate had heard, and adjudicated, 1,457 pianists!

Our last stop was at a fishing village, where the people live on boats, beneath which large nets are suspended.     These nets are filled with fish which are fed until large enough for sale.   The village is located just outside a typhoon shelter, within which it can re-locate in the event of a big wind.    Presumably the fish move with the boats, doubtless thinking they are going on holiday, much like the birds who ‘walk’ round the park.

We’ve tried to speak a little Chinese, but extreme care is called for.    Although Kate has perfected ‘Good morning’ and ‘Good afternoon’, often to applause from an audience not used to Guylos making any effort at their language, Bruce advised caution.

He used a phrase and said it meant “I am hungry”.   He then repeated the phrase with no apparent change and said it now meant “I have diarrhoea”.   One of the adjudicators, working in the New Territories with no English-speaking clerk, could not make the competitors understand when she called their numbers.    Consequently she said ‘Nine’ in Chinese and was puzzled by the howls of laughter.    What she had actually called was ‘Monkey’.    The same lady told us that, when in a Mumbai office applying for a visa, the man she was dealing with received a couple of phone calls.    Each time he picked the telephone up he said “It’s boiling here” which she thought was strange, as it wasn’t particularly hot.   She later found that his name was Boiling.

George Lee, one of the adjudicators, was playing for an opera and witnessed an altercation between two horn players.   One, a seasoned professional, took issue with the other, a student, who frequently came in with a pickled egg which he broke open on the music stand before devouring it.     Eventually, the student, apparently contrite, offered his senior colleague an egg, in a gesture of good will.     The older man accepted the gift and cracked it on the music stand.     The egg, quite fresh, splattered over his shoes and dribbled down the stand to the floor.

Several adjudicators have fallen victim to local bugs and viruses, but they’ve all kept working so that no-one has, as yet, had to do extra sessions.    Some years ago Richard Deering told us that he had diarrhoea during a concert.    The Beethoven Sonata he was performing had never, he told us, been played as fast as on that evening.

Just behind the hotel is a ubiquitous 24 hour 7/11 shop, where I bought a bottle of gin and a small bottle of local wine.     The merest sip of the latter showed that it was rot gut.    Kate came back in need of sustenance and poured what she thought was a gin and tonic for each of us.   The room became quite bendy, and the furniture started to dance in a most attractive way.    I suppose she could be forgiven for not knowing the difference between the Chinese characters for tonic water and fire water!   We’d only been here for a week.

There are notices in the hotel saying ‘In case of fire do not use lift’   Unfortunately we have to break the rules and use them, being on the 29^th floor.     The local folk are great ones for rules.   Twice we’ve seen fire engines rushing to a blaze stop at traffic lights, waiting patiently for them to turn to green.   One rule we heartily endorse is ‘No smoking in any public place’.     It means we can have a meal without someone lighting up at the next table, or in the ridiculously designated ‘non-smoking area’ from which the smoke is prohibited from spreading.     Even the public parks are smoke free!

Although this isn’t the tourist season, there are plenty of Westerners here, many of them walking along grim faced and wary, as though expecting to be mugged at any moment.   

Before the handover in 1997 many Westerners thought there would be cataclysmic changes.   One couple we knew sold their house and were living on a boat, ready for a quick getaway when the Chinese army marched in.   That didn’t happen, and now ten years later there seems, superficially at least, to be little difference between pre- and post-handover.    Most streets, for instance, retain their former names – Nathan Road, Lockhart Road, Gloucester Road, Edinburgh Place and so on.     We asked one of Kate’s clerks how the 1997 hand-over had changed life in Hong Kong.   She said “Very much.  The red letter boxes were painted green”

Another noticeable difference is that fewer young people are as fluent in English as they used to be.     When the hand-over came the new Chief Executive announced that all teaching had to be in the ‘mother tongue’.   Understandable, no doubt, for a people anxious to establish its new identity, but a mistake for one wishing to make headway in a business world for which a knowledge of English is essential, especially in these days of the Internet.

There’s nothing quite like the evocative smell of drains to bring back a sense of belonging in Hong Kong.   That and the slow pace at which people walk in the streets, which seems odd in a place where the speed of life is anything but slow.    Maybe it’s a way to counter the effects of stress.    They must have found some method, as Hong Kongers are the longest-lived people on earth, ahead of the Japanese and the Spanish.    Maybe being happy is the secret.     It’s such a pleasure to be here, as the Chinese, while often appearing anxious and nervy, are a delightfully courteous, friendly, smiley people.

Behind the hotel is Jaffe Road, and parallel with that is Lockhart Road.   The latter is one of those streets where a certain type of business is concentrated, as in Harley Street in London.    Here it’s bathroom and shower shops, selling every conceivable variety of sanitary appliances.    One seemingly out of place establishment is the Lofty Virtue Publication Centre.    I need look no further when my novel is finished.

The virtue stops at the pavement edge, as the other side of the road is part of the red light district, several of the premises fronted by pretty girls, often applying their make-up and curling their eyelashes for the benefit of the passing trade.    Although dressed provocatively to attract customers, they are usually flanked by hard faced madames whose grim looks are more than enough to negate their employees’ charms.   When I tried to photograph them they turned away.     Maybe not wanting the keen-eyed Hong Kong tax man to recognise them!

After thinking I had lost my passport last week, I really did lose Kate’s.     On the way to get her a visa for China I pulled out a map and think this was when it was lost.    The police were very friendly and sympathetic, as was the consular official when he told me the cost of a replacement was £96.    At least, Kate will have a new passport with a photo which looks better than the last one, and which will last for ten years from now.

On Saturday our friend, the remarkable Japanese pianist Masa Tayama, is playing Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto with an orchestra conducted by another friend, Lev Parikian.     In a recital at our house Kate played the orchestral part for him a few weeks ago, and everyone agreed that it was a terrific joint performance.    Masa is one of the finest talents Kate has known in a lifetime of hearing the great professional pianists.

We want to wish our wonderful choir, Vivace, all the best for the concert on Saturday 17^th March (in the WI Hall in Arlesey, Bedfordshire, if you’re near enough to go).  They’re singing the Pergolesi Stabat Mater, folksongs arranged by our president John Railton, and other items.    Some music is being provided by the Potterton String Quartet, and it’ll be the first time that Kate hasn’t played for them, so it’s just as well that they won’t need a pianist.   

What they did need, when we started the choir, was a mascot.    We invited the Italian tenor Pavarotti but he didn’t reply so he missed his chance.  Subsequently we were delighted to meet the famous Indian baritone Ravipotti who not only became our mascot but who performs in every concert.

At the end of the third week friendly American Don Oehler returned to his professorial duties at the University of North Carolina, and lovely Dr Hsia-jung Chang left to continue her musical career in New York.   

It’s great meeting adjudicators from different parts of the world but it’s a special joy to make friends with British musicians.   People like Raphael Terroni who had lessons with Cyril Smith and like Kate runs Little Benslow courses, Roshan Magub who teaches talented children at the Purcell School, recorder specialist trendy young Becki Austen-Brown, David Oliver whom Kate has known since Watford days in the Sixties, and tap dancing Bernard King who is full of fun.  

Then there’s hilarious George Lee, Guy Cremnitz who came to our house and examined in his slippers, adventurous Michelle Lee who examines for Trinity College and has recently moved to France, Andrew Davis who was formerly plenipotentiary to the Sultan of Sulu, Rosemary Wright who studied with Kate in Vienna, and Andy Sherwood whose first job on coming to England from Rhodesia was to play for Fonteyn and Nureyev.

When he was a young man Andy was in a café when he noticed a beautiful woman with sad eyes sitting alone.    He gallantly asked if he could buy her a drink.    She accepted and he sat at her table.   He noticed she sat with feet splayed and said “Are you some kind of dancer?” to which she replied “You could say that”

The next afternoon he had taken his place in the orchestra pit for a rehearsal when the star of the evening’s show, the great sad eyed ballerina Svetlana Beriosova, looked down and called “Hi Andy, how’re you doing?”

Because the work is so intensive, demanding hours of concentration for six days a week, most of the adjudicators agree that three weeks is about enough, and five weeks is a killer.   Kate, however, remains full of energy!     Would anyone who knows her doubt it?

Her share of the 167,000 entrants includes all types and sizes, some of them utterly brilliant and some who shouldn’t have been entered, and several who carefully clean all the keys before they begin!   Some of the little boys look extremely pretentious in specially tailored tails and bow ties.

I have worked in several schools, including the German-Swiss International School whose librarian, Monica, decorated the library in Native American fashion as some of my stories were to be those told in a tepee and elsewhere in the West.      Backdrop for the stories was a rather realistic tepee, with various other artefacts.

We’ve taught several of the adjudicators Jana's card game, which visitors to our home may remember with varying degrees of pleasure.   Viviane Ronchetti learned so well that she actually beat Kate, something almost unheard of, and even less forgivable.

As a special treat, my friend the beautiful 18" tall Daffodil played her violin at the start of one of Viviane’s sessions, to give the competitors something to aim for.    Her performance was deemed to be without parallel.

Viviane is director of the National Youth Strings Academy, and is conducting a course in nearby (to us) Hatfield Herts in August.    The course is aimed at talented players aged 9 to 15 with a playing standard of Grades 5, 6 and 7.

Another course is in Leatherhead in July.   For further details see the website at www.nysastrings.org.uk.     Viviane has a great sense of humour and we reckon anything she runs will be well worth attending.   For information Tel/Fax: 01728 605917.  Her email is director@nysastrings.org.uk

Unfortunately, Kate has developed ‘trigger thumb’, one of her thumb joints having decided to stick on occasion, and help was clearly needed.   We went to a local medical centre which is open seven days a week from 10am to 2am!!!!   How’s that for service!    The doctor gave Kate an examination and some pills, at a cost of a little under 16 pounds.   It costs more to take the dog to the Vet.    Since then she has been bitten by scores of bugs, her ankles resembling pin cushions, so it’s on with the cream and down with more pills.      Comparing bumps with Roshan they discovered that they were the only two who had adjudicated in a posh local hotel, and were the only two who had been bitten.   Obvious comclusions were drawn.

We went to exciting Temple Street Night Market, where the prices make you wonder if anyone can make a living there.    We bought a few things including a pair of (new) shoes for Kate for 2 pounds 40p.

The last time we were in China we went to see the Terracotta Warriors in Xian.      Despite having seen the photographs and even a film of the display, we weren’t prepared for the marvel of it all.   The ranks of soldiers stretching away into the distance were quite stunning, as was the promise that more warriors were waiting to be uncovered.

Now we read that another emperor’s tomb has been excavated, to reveal one-third human size terracotta figurines.     40,000 have been found in the ten out of 81 pits surrounding the tomb which have been opened so far.    Another 28 unopened pits surround the tomb of the empress.      There are the graves of over 10,000 nobles also at the site.     The mind boggles at the possibilities.

We wanted some curtain fabric for the foyer at home and, after thinking Kate might have to join me in Guangzhou to go to the much admired Cloth Market, we found some in a shop quite near the hotel.   The name of the shop is New Bedford Interiors.   We asked why, and it appears that the Chinese owner saw the name and thought it sounded ‘superior’.   We couldn’t agree more.    We wrote our company name ‘Elmitt Enterprises’ on the order.    A few days later the shop keeper rang to tell ‘Mr.Enterprises’ that the material had arrived.

When I lost Kate’s passport last week the man at the British Consulate told me we needed to complete one form, and that I could go to apply for a replacement.      Both pieces of information were wrong, as there are two forms, and Kate had to go herself.   We also found that the first set of photos she had done, in which she is smiling sweetly, wouldn’t do, as you have to look grim for the new bio something brand of identity documents.

This all led to Kate having to go herself to the Consulate, which was just as well.      She completed the forms, paid the £96 fee, and was leaving when her name was called.      They had just opened the post to find her passport returned by a public spirited but sadly anonymous (because they couldn’t be thanked) citizen.    The application was cancelled, and the fee returned.

Kate’s passport negotiation was not newsworthy, unlike those of two new immigrant children.    To celebrate the tenth anniversary of Hong Kong’s reunification with China the mainland has presented Hong Kong Zoo with a pair of panda cubs, shown here playing with the First Secretary and his wife.

We saw our first cat this week, in a shop.  It was very friendly, rubbing round our legs and bringing Midnight very much to mind.

Although we’re a long way from home we keep up to date with world news, and note that sanctions for Iran are still on the international agenda.      The Iranians are required to put an immediate stop to all nuclear activity.    They have seen their nextdoor neighbour conquered by the world’s most dangerous country, led by the world’s leading terrorist, who also has them on his hit list.     Did Hitler object to the Poles and French making guns and bullets before he invaded, I wonder.   Would we have supported sanctions against them, if he had?

Future generations will see as a major stain on the British character our collaboration in the murder of hundreds of thousands of men women and children in order to get our hands on their national product, and the valuable reconstruction rewards for rebuilding the infrastructure we have destroyed.    People worry about rising crime figures.    In history crime has always risen in societies which have begun to decay.

At the beginning of week four I went to China and so missed the Junior Exhibitioner Class at the Festival.    This was for children under twelve, and Kate adjudicated for fifteen hours with Guy Cremnitz (the examiner who came to our house and asked if he could wear his slippers).   There were performances of Haydn, Mozart, Bach, Poulenc, Rebikov and Copland which were awesome.      One of the winners was Peggy, daughter of our friend Rizzo Chung.    Rizzo had entered Peggy under her Chinese name, so that Kate wouldn’t know who she was.

The final dinner on the Saturday (with still a week to go!) was enlivened by a rather messy performance by six adjudicators, including Kate, who gave an ‘unforgettable’ rendition of one of the set piece duets.

 A spectacular highlight of the week was a visit to the Tsuen Wan town hall for a performance of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.     The vast orchestra was creative and colourful with excellent and dominant tuba playing and wonderful solo passages from the strings.

Kate had a seat near the front and marvelled at the inventive props and scenery and the amazing costumes in brightly coloured silks.   The swashbuckling was stirring and the scene changes incredibly clever.   The exciting choreography was designed by a woman who had been born a man.    She had always felt female, eventually had the operation, and had since adopted a child.   Having been through such enormous changes she now feels that there are no limts and she can do anything.      Not a bad attitude for comeone in the arts!

Despite all the foregoing, the night was made by the dancers.    Most were oriental, Romeo being danced wonderfully by Zhang Yao.   However, as the report in the South China Morning Post put it, the night belonged to Faye Leung who played Juliet.     She was on stage for most of the three hours, and “Heartfelt and convincing in her acting, her dancing was not only beautiful in the duets but showed a new brilliance in her solos, and she shone from start to finish”.

 On reaching the station you find that the doors are exactly aligned with the doors which open in the glass platform edge barrier.   No chance of suicides on these stations!

I popped back from China on the Friday evening and Kate and I went to the Flying Cockroach and saw the lights on both sides of harbour, and on the boats.    Several of the latter display non-functional lights, even though they appear not to be involved in tourism.   Perhaps it’s all a matter of ‘Let’s join in the fun’    There was also an elaborate tableau of some event in China's history which attracted a lot of attention.   We'd seen it in daylight but it was much more interesting illuminated at night.

On the Saturday I went with Kate to the day’s venue and listened to the performances and her adjudication in morning, then found a quiet spot in the empty school to eat our sandwiches.   These were ‘stolen’ from the hotel restaurant (most of the adjudicators are criminals!).     We take extra slices of bread and bits of filling, aided and abetted by the waitresses, who provide ‘doggy bags’.

There is always something going on in Hong Kong, in fact often many things at the same time.   Paralleling the Music Festival is a Literary Festival, advertised by an avid reader.    So keen is he, in fact, that he sits in his armchair beside Harbour Road with his book for twenty-four hours every day.

In the lunch break we went with Michelle to the Jade Market, where Kate looked in vain for some bracelets she’d seen elsewhere.     When we came out of there I said goodbye and went off to the station for my journey back to Guangzhou.

On the last Sunday of our stay Kate went to Lamma Island with Roshan Magub, former head of keyboard studies at the Purcell School.      They sat on a bench by the sea and, having no utensils, ate barbecued sweet potato with their fingers.   After rubbing cream on their insect bites they strolled along the beautiful beach and paddled in the sea, had an expensive German ice cream, and were presented by an old lady with two lettuces, both of which they ate.         Lamma is a tranquil place with no motor cars and no building higher than three storeys.   Just the spot for weary adjudicators to spend a free day!

To relax between sessions Kate and Roshan and Vivienne played Jana’s Game, until they were asked, shortly before departure, to cease playing cards in the hotel foyer.   This was irritating, as the hotel had no other room in which to relax, but the management, having observed it for over four weeks, had decided to have no more of this Western debauchery.

Kate’s clerks were all very well schooled, being efficient and helpful, many of them students just earning pocket money.     Several of them promised to visit us in future, when they come to England, as most hope to do to as part of their language studies.    Most are already pretty good at English, but one had to be asked not to call Kate an Associated BRoad Examiner.

The night before I got back from China there was another ‘final’ meal, after which George and Michelle accompanied Kate round the harbour, needing exercise to get over some heavy eating.      Often one can see groups exercising in the parks, especially before work in the morning.   They are practicing tai chi, the slow motion routines which develop poise and balance, usually without a leader.   They simply come together, and if a guylo wants to join in they smile and make a space and sometimes offer helpful suggestions.

Despite the smells from the drains, the streets of Hong Kong are kept clean by an army of sweepers, usually elderly, who seem to work from first light to after sunset.   Also getting on a bit are the folk who push heavily laden barrows and carts, often piled high with flattened cardboard boxes.   I didn’t like to ask what they did with them, but they could probably have answered me, having been brought up when English was the common language in the schools.

At least, with the language, we left behind something of value.       We made a mess of the world in the nineteenth century, and the Americans and Russians did no better in the twentieth.  China will be the greatest nation in the twenty-first.   Let’s hope they do a little better.   Sorry, I’m on my soapbox again.  It takes very little to get me there.

A taxi driver told me that before the change over in 1997 there was a lot of crime, but that this has reduced now as the police are working hard to beat the criminals.   However, he warned me to be careful especially round the railway stations as the people who have come from the interior looking for work will pick pockets, steal bags and generally misbehave.

We spent Friday evening chatting in lounge with other adjudicators.   We discovered that Andrew Davis had lived in Sabah (Borneo) for 25 years.   He gave us lots of info, and names of people to contact in Sabah, Sarawak and elsewhere, plus a fascinating and involved account of his relationship with the Royal Family of Sulu by whose sultan he was appointed plenipotentiary.      Andrew mentioned that many people go to Sabah hoping to catch sight of the pygmy elephants, but that in 25 years he’d never seen one.

Andy Sherwood recommended a cookery book, written by and given to him by Nela Rubenstein.    He told us that Nela was replaced towards the end of Rubenstein’s life by another woman, to whom he gave many of the impressionist paintings and other treasures he had previously given to Nela.

Late we joined Rizzo and Adam Chung for a delicious meal at a Times Square restaurant.   Rizzo wants Kate to do some more work for her next year.      

On Saturday we posted a very heavy parcel home.    It contained the curtain material we’d bought, some jackets and other items, and cost about £45.   Pricey perhaps, but we’d have had difficulty with it.

Then we decided to go on a tram, but found them extremely busy.   One bound for Happy Valley, location of one of Hong Kong’s two racecourses, had a spare couple of seats, so we had a ride, and stayed on at the terminus to come back again!    On returning to the hotel we spent the afternoon packing and then at 6pm Jan Mann came with her husband Geoff to collect our case.       Jan is librarian at one of the schools I worked at, and Geoff is going to collect us from the airport when we return to HK for one night after our trip to Borneo.

An early morning call got us up in time to leave the Luk Kwok hotel at 5.30am, to drive the 40 kilometres to the airport to catch the plane to Kota Kinabalu.      We passed the container terminals which handle 25 million containers each year, and whose massive cranes were already festooned with lights.      Over two kilometres of our route was on the massive Tsing Ma Bridge, constructed to link Hong Kong and the airport at Lantau Island.   It’s the world’s largest road and rail suspension bridge, and we saw it being built in time for the hand-over when we first came to Hong Kong ten years ago.

Coming (fairly) soon:-

Reports on trips to China, Borneo, Sri Lanka, France, Majorca

National Service experiences

Painting Coal

I began my National Service in January 1953 at Ladysmith Barracks in Ashton Under Lyne.     The only part of Ladysmith which survives (now classified as a historical monument) is the main gate and front wall, bordering the housing estate which now covers the once hallowed parade ground and other areas.   An early memory was of coal being delivered, a great pile being left at the edge of the parade ground, much to the sergeant major’s chagrin, this being a sacrosanct area.

Under the supervision of a second lieutenant (aged 18, the same as us) a squad of us was detailed to shovel the coal onto two-wheeled barrows and trundle it up a hill, to add it to a heap in a field.    There, we had to paint it white.     Unfortunately, the heap was about 8 to 9 feet high, and we had only ordinary paint brushes with which to do the job.    Consequently, you either mounted the heap to start at the top, but then dislodged bits as you came down, or painted the bottom and then did the same as you climbed to paint the upper parts.    

I made the mistake of asking why we were painting the coal.     “So that lorries won’t bump into it in the dark” came the reply.     It was obvious that no lorry could pass through the small gate through which we’d pushed our barrows, and I pointed this out.     The result was that I was up on orders the following morning and confined to barracks for a week for impertinence.      Although this would be entered on my record it was of little practical importance as we were all confined to barracks for the whole six weeks of our initial training period.

Behind the Drawing Pins

At the Education Corps training school in Beaconsfield, rookies were divided into small groups and given various jobs to do each evening.       These included cleaning the toilets, cleaning the COs office, cleaning the kitchens and so on.      One night my group was given the COs office, a job which was generally considered a soft touch, and I elected to do the brasses.     These included door knobs, the safe handle, carpet edging strips, and several other items.     At the end of the duty everyone examined the others’ work to make sure the group didn’t get a black mark for any omissions.

The following morning I was surprised to find myself on orders, not being aware that I had done anything wrong.     The CO said “You did the brasses in here last night, Wilkins?”    I confirmed that it was indeed me that had had that honour.    “You didn’t do the drawing pins on the notice board”     He must have been in a good mood because when I quickly apologised and offered to do them at lunch time, he agreed.

At lunch time, consequently, I presented myself with Brasso and button stick, and diligently polished the drawing pins so that they shone.

I was on orders the following day, and confined to barracks for seven days because I had failed to polish the backs of the drawing pins.

This is absolutely true, but only chaps who did National Service will believe it!

Mr.Peck

During my teens I was a pretty successful shot putter, being British Schools champion, winning numerous other titles, and competing against the Russian, Czech, Dutch and East Germans teams who came to Britain in the Fifties.     At the British Junior Championships in 1952 several of the more successful lads were approached by an army officer, Lieutenant Peck, who enquired of their intentions when it came to National Service.     He addressed me as “Wilkins”, and I corrected him, saying I was called “Mr.Wilkins”.      I was a really insufferable twerp in those days.    The lieutenant apologised and repeated his question, adding that he was hoping to encourage promising athletes to join his regiment, the 67^th Royal Artillery.      I told him I was going into the Intelligence Corps, and walked away.

After my basic square bashing I was drafted into the Education Corps, the poor man’s version of the IC, and began my training at The White Park (Disraeli’s old home) in Beaconsfield.     In the middle of this my father died and I managed to fail the course, and was told I’d be drafted to the 67^th RA, of which I’d vaguely heard somewhere.    By this time I had learned the basic requirements of army life and was earning punishments rather less than in the first few months.

A couple of days later I walked through the gates of the 67^th RA base in Oswestry, to be met by Lieutenant Peck, who said “Good morning Mr.Wilkins”       Kitbag and rucksack hit the ground as I produced a smart salute with a snappy “Good morning Sir”      He could have been unpleasant, but I remember him as a decent chap, with whom I got on quite well thereafter.

I soon learned the reason for his canvassing at the Junior Championships.     The 67^th RA had won the Army championships for the previous four years.       The paratroopers had won for the four years before that.     The 67^th wanted to make it five in a row and have the record for the most consecutive titles, while the paras wanted to stop such nonsense and remain joint consecutive record holders.    I was employed as a PTI (Physical Training Instructor) which gave plenty of time for athletics practice.    We did win the fifth title.

Scrumping

For some reason which I can’t remember, I found myself bunking in a spider with lots of transport drivers.    A spider was a billet with six accommodation blocks arranged round a central ablutions block, which from above would look like a 6 legged insect.     The fact that spiders have eight legs was ignored, as were  alternatives like butterfly and ladybird.

Near the camp was a hospital, in the grounds of which was a large orchard, and one night some of the drivers decided to go scrumping apples.      I was invited to join them and so got ready in my red and black striped PTI jersey which I wrapped round my belt.     My intention was to pick the apples off the trees and popped them down my sweater at the neck.

We went to the garages and the drivers took the brigade commander’s car and a Landrover.      I was given an officer’s hat to wear and we rolled out of camp with everyone leaping to attention and giving me rapid salutes, which I answered with a nonchalant wave.

Once at the orchard we spread out and started to pick apples.     Being taller than most I got more than my fair share, which grew into a huge spare tyre round my middle.    Then we heard a whistle and saw men from the hospital, running towards us.    Everyone sprinted for the vehicles, including me with about a hundredweight of apples dragging me back.       I frantically tried to loosen my jersey, and just managed to free it as I reached the tarmac road, on which the cars were already moving.      My apples flooded out behind me and I heard howls as my pursuers trod on them and fell over, the first ones tripping those behind.  

I managed to dive into the Landrover and for a few days we all expected to be charged with trespass at least, if not theft, but we never heard any more about it.      We didn’t go scrumping again though.

Red Alert   

In the Seventies, over twenty years since I’d last seen the White Park and the Education Corps head quarters, I thought I’d have another look.     I was due to pass through Beaconsfield one evening, and checking the location drove along the drive.    In front of me I could see a guard post, and as I got near a lad stepped out and waved to me.

I thought that was polite and welcoming, and waved back.   As I passed him, he banged on the roof of the car, by way of welcome.   Suddenly, the road ahead was full of soldiers, all pointing guns at me.    I stopped and wound down the window, to allow a pistol to be poked in my face.

“Where you going, pal?” asked the mouth behind the gun.

“I was stationed here during my National Service” I blurted out.     “I wanted to see if it looked the same”

I must have seemed innocent, as the guard captain said “We’ve got a red alert.   ‘cos of the IRA.    You’ll have to turn round and go back.   Leave it a week or two and try again”. I turned the car, drove back down the drive, and haven’t yet returned.

The Winner!

In 1953, though large, I was pretty fit and could run quite a distance, so the announcement of a cross country during our training at Beaconsfield didn’t worry me.    In fact, I decided to show the other lads what I could do.

About 20 of us set off and, about half way round, I put on a spurt and went to the front.   It was a hot day and I remember the road wound through some woods which gave us a bit of shade.    

The fact that no-one passed me for the rest of the race had me dreaming of being chosen for the mile in the regimental sports.   Until, at the very end, I put on a spurt and ran triumphantly onto the parade ground, where a dozen chaps were already lined up, having taken a short cut through the woods.   I got a number of shifty grins, and was never chosen for the mile.

Missed Opportunity

Being the biggest physical training instructor in the camp, I was given the job of subduing the roughest recruits. Which was rather bad planning as our toughest PTI was half my size.

One day I was given a bunch of layabouts from the Sauciehall area of Glasgow, having been told they were all thick and dangerous.     I was to teach them several exercises, one of them using a 25lb shell.     The idea was to throw it into the air, pulling the pointed end down just before it left the hands, and catching it the other way round.     A small chap in the front row had difficulty understanding my instructions and repeatedly asked ‘Could ye do tha’ agen Sir?’    At last, irritated and suspicious, I snapped ‘Watch, because this is the last time’

Of course, I missed it, and the shell came down on my big toe.    Just as I subsided into unconsciousness, I heard ‘Och, so that’s how you do it’ accompanied by peals of laughter.

I was in Chester Military Hospital for a few days and on returning to camp, being unable to work as a PTI until my toe had fully healed, was given the job of delivering coal to the married quarters.

Being an NCO I was in charge, wielding the clipboard and obtaining signatures for delivery, while a couple of rookies took the bags of coal into the houses where they were emptied into a hopper in a corner of the kitchen.   Everything went to plan until we came to a house where, after delivering the coal, the rookies got out their sandwiches and sat in the cab.      There was nothing on my sheet to indicate a lunch break at this place or this time, so I asked why they’d stopped.

“Always stop here” one of them said.

“You have to go and see the woman” said the other, grinning.

I turned, to see a rather pretty woman of about forty standing in the doorway.   She nodded and turned to enter the house.      I followed and saw her standing at the bottom of the stairs, one foot on the first step.

“I need a signature” I said.

“No you don’t love.   That’s not what you need”

I was a bit naïve and said “Yes, I need a signature, or my books won’t balance”

“Where’s Alan? she asked.

“I don’t know.   Maybe he’s been posted.   I’ve taken over from him”

“Alan never needed a signature” she said.

“How did he balance his books then?”

“I don’t think it mattered to him.     He got something here that was more important than a signature.     Up there” she added, nodding up the stairs.

I knew then what she meant, that she was inviting me to enter that mystical world I had only read about, that world of which I knew nothing whatever, and was not in any way equipped to deal.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have a signature.   Please sign here Mrs …. Er …. Mrs.Watson”.

Mrs.Watson signed, and it was over a year before I took the giant step.

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Indecent Exposure

For many years there was a famous zoo in Manchester at Belle Vue.    It started life in the Nineteenth Century as a menagerie at which people could view the mysterious and dangerous animals which had been collected from all over the world by the owner.

After the Second World War the zoo was developed and became an important link in the animal conservation chain.

During the Sixties a dance hall – The New Elizabethan Ballroom – was built on the grounds, and soon became very popular on Friday and Saturday nights.     I got a job there as a bouncer, employed with several others to patrol and eject miscreants.

For a few weeks we’d been trying to find who was cutting the settees, of which there were many scattered around the building.   Each night we’d find long slits in the rexine, from which long sausages of foam rubber protruded.   Then, one Saturday night, while checking for loving couples oblivious to the lateness of the hour in hidden corners, I found myself behind a young man who was walking behind a long couch, his trailing hand producing a long roll of foam.     

I grabbed him, squeezing his fingers tight, and dragged him to the office of the manager, Johnny Mortenson.    Everyone was overjoyed that the culprit had been found, as I opened his fingers and let a razor blade fall onto Johnny’s desk.

The other seven bouncers crowded into the small office as Johnny took his stamp pad from the drawer and found a clean sheet of paper.    While we held the lad still, his fingerprints were carefully taken ‘for the police’.     Then a toy camera was produced which squirted water at the unsuspecting subject.   We’d all been surprised at its realism when we’d confiscated it from a lad who squirted unsuspecting girls, thinking they would be receiving a ‘studio portrait’.     The boy was trembling with fear while we held him still so that Johnny could take his ‘mug shot’.

Then our manager seemed to ponder, and looked intently at the razor blade.   “Mustn’t use that” he muttered.    “Got his fingerprints on it”    So he rummaged in his drawers again and came out with a large pair of scissors, with which he proceeded to cut into ribbons all the vandal’s clothing - shirt, underpants, trousers and jacket - to howls of protest from the lad and our somewhat muted expressions of surprise and concern.      All the tatters were dumped in a cardboard box which was thrust at the naked lad.

“I think Sergeant Morgan’s on duty tonight” said Johnny.    “Take him over and introduce them”

Just outside the main entrance was a police post, and there were always officers on duty on a Friday and Saturday night.   Sergeant Morgan was an old style long serving copper who had no time for evil-doers, and who always carried a stick with a silver handle.   He looked at the lad clutching his box strategically in front of his groin, as did several wide eyed girls who were waiting for late night buses.

Suddenly the stick twirled in the Sergeant’s hand and the silver knob stuck the bottom of the box, which flew into the air, spreading its contents far and wide.

“Ha!” said the Sergeant triumphantly.    “Indecent exposure in a public place!    Can’t have that, can we.   Take him in charge constable.   Have him before the bench on Monday morning”

I’m not sure what happened thereafter, but presume the lad spent a night in the cells before meeting the magistrate.     At least, I’m pretty sure he never came back to the ballroom.

In case you think you’d like to see the animals, or do a fancy quickstep one Saturday evening, I need to tell you that Belle Vue and its zoo and ballroom have long gone, to be replaced by a housing estate, and remain only in the memories of those people old enough to have enjoyed a time when the pressure on living space was less than it is now.

Mucky Meat

After leaving the army in 1954 I got a job in Walls factory in Godley (Hyde, Cheshire) as a meat humper.     With another chap called Harry I had to take off the lorries the meat needed for Walls famous pies and sausages.     Being tall I hade to bend my knees when taking sides of beef onto my back, while Harry, who was about as wide as he was high, could simply stand upright and take the loads without bending.   I had the advantage when we got to the fridge however, as I could place my burdens directly onto the hooks provided, while Harry had to step on a box, which could be quite a tricky proposition with 300 lbs of beef on your back.

One day I failed to get a good grip on a lump of meat, and dropped it into the gutter, where it was liberally washed by the effluent which flowed down to the drain.     The foreman called two of the men to lift it back and I went to the freezer to hang it as usual.       When it became clear that nothing was being done to clean the beef I had dropped, I spoke to the foreman, who said someone would see to it ‘in a bit’.    No-one did anything, and I never had any of Walls products thereafter, although I’m sure their standards of hygiene have improved a little in the last fifty years.

Cardboard press

For a short time I worked as a fitter’s mate in a Denton factory.   I remember the fitter and I clambering up parallel ladders each holding the end of a long metal bar with which to repair some machinery, and doing similar tough guy acts which may, or may not, have impressed the girls working down below.

The factory produced a lot of cardboard, which had to be baled and disposed of.      This was done by hand, one person pressing down hard on the heap of cardboard while another tied the rope.       And then one day the firm got a press which descended onto the cardboard piled into a large cage until it was a small block, round which metal bands were then automatically wrapped so that the resulting dense and heavy cube could be removed and placed with others on a lorry.   We spent a lot of time watching this new machine, taking bets on how far the press would descend before the mass below it would compress no more.

I remember only as Chris the lad who reckoned he could beat the press.     He was a body builder, and he boasted that he could get in the cage and hold the press up, to prevent it coming down.     No one expected him to try, but one day there was a shout that brought those nearby running to the press.     Chris was inside the cage, grinning up at us, and preparing to flex his muscles as the metal plate above him descended.   The plate reached him and the foreman said “Stop it”     Someone hit the red button, but nothing happened, except that the plate continued downwards.   Chris cried out when he discovered that he couldn’t stop the machine, and we all thumped the red button, but without success.

Chris screamed as he was being pushed down and, while people yelled for the electrician, we heard bones crack.   There was another gurgling scream and blood started to come out of the cage, while Chris’s body was crushed further and further down.   People scrabbled at the wires and the gate, and the sounds from inside the cage had reduced to meaningless noises.     Unable to help, we stood transfixed, watching his face twist until his skull burst.   Behind me a girl uttered a long keening wail.  

Then the downward motion stopped, metal bands wrapped round the body, and the front of the cage opened automatically so that the contents could be removed.

We all staggered away, some vomiting, others feeling very weak.   Soon the ambulance men came and took Chris away.    The press was cleaned up, the release malfunction repaired, and the electrician fitted a gadget which would stop the press going below a certain point, just in case anyone thought they’d test their strength.    If this had happened today, the press would doubtless be removed altogether in deference to the heightened sensibilities of our present age, but those were different times.

Night Work

I didn’t pass my driving test until I’d been selling life assurance for almost a year, working along convenient bus routes.         One night I’d been to see a friend in Ashton under Lyne and missed the last bus, which meant an eight mile walk home.   After more chat and another cuppa I set off at about 1am.

Walking through Denton I was enveloped by the most wonderful smell of newly baked bread, and headed off down a side street to where lights and aroma came from a bakery.   In a small cabin I found a man with his feet on the desk, enjoying a cigarette.   He looked up apprehensively when I walked in, but I told him my name and gave him my card.

“Damned funny time to be calling on people” he said.

“That’s my job.   I’ve been especially employed to call on people who work at nights, and don’t get the opportunity to discuss pensions and investments, like day workers do.”

“What a good idea” he said.     “No one’s ever come to see me before”

We talked for quite a while and he agreed that I should quote him for a private pension, as the one he had was years old and had never been topped up.    I got out my diary to make an appointment to call back, and he said “About this time will do, next Tuesday.    I have a break at 3 o’ clock”

Realising that I was looking at another walk in the middle of the night, I said “Would it be any better for you during the day?”, but he said “No, I don’t want to take you out of your way, 3 o’clock will be fine”    Ah well, walking does you good, whatever time of day you do it!

Dedication to the job

Georgeson and Sons, wine merchants and bottlers for whom I worked for a while, imported large barrels of sherry from Domecq and other producers in Portugal.

This sherry was bottled under various labels, Harveys, La ina fino, and Georgeson’s own, all from the same cask.   The bottling was done by Hughie, who seemed to live permanently in the cellar.   He would sit on a stool in front of the barrel, with a stack of bottles on one side and empty cases on the other.

The tap would be turned on, and a bottle filled, always a little too much for Hughie’s taste, so there would be a quick slurp to bring it down to preferred level.   This would continue for a long time, until there was a bang as the trapdoor in the floor was thrown back.    Hughie would then crawl through the hole and spread himself on the floor, where he would go to sleep until it was time for everyone to go home.    One of the girls would then waken him and help him out to his bike.   The last we would see of Hughie he was weaving all over the road, hoping to avoid the traffic.

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Why do gorillas have big nostrills?       Because they have big fingers.        Anon

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