Monday 2 November 2015

Working as an Au Pair for China's New Rich

Don't know if you've heard, but these days Chinese families are stupidly rich. Properties in all the major cities rich. The latest Dior slingbacks in different colours rich. Five drivers, a gardener, and three housemaids rich. Golfing rich.

But these newly bourgeois families still believe that China is the pits. They long for life in London, Paris or LA and usually spend their holidays and cash there to escape the sweaty wave of domestic tourism at Spring Festival. They fiercely compete to send their baobeis to the top league international schools, and are shocked and appalled at the lack of foreign classmates. And if they can't have life in the West? They will buy a bit of the West to have at home.

The trade in au pairs, or for visa purposes 'cultural exchange students', is lucrative business in China. A wealthy family will shell out the equivalent of £8,000 yearly membership to a company who promises to find them an English speaking au-pair, and an additional one grand per month they have said au-pair under their roof. The company basically acts as a middleman, recruiting naive, wanderlusting youngsters to embark on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure: living, eating, sleeping with a real Chinese family in exchange for a few hours' English playtime per week, all expenses paid.

For me, it was the ideal doorway into China for free.

Unfortunately, demand is much stronger than supply, which is why these intermediary companies do so well. But they are at the mercy of the host families who expect value for money from the person they effectively buy, despite the fact that the latter pockets only a fraction of the family's investment (standard pay is around £100 per month). It's a huge conflict of interests.

After studying minimal Chinese at uni, it seemed logical to go and discover the Middle Kingdom in its physical, verifiable actualness. But I had no money. From a quick "go to china for free" google search, "Au-pair in China" was one of the many algorithmic responses that seemed less shadowy.

Widely-held consensus and rare encounters have unscientifically shown that Chinese kids are far more obedient than their UK counterparts (it's worth mentioning I despise children). What's more, as I wanted to get improve my Chinese, I would have to go neck deep and join a family unit. Google's advice seemed like a valid solution to the UK employment quagmire, of which I'd grown phobic. In spite of concerned friends' remarks of "but... I thought you hated kids?", I filled an application and got an instant response.

Suddenly I was in Chengdu. (I'm not going to talk about the process of applying for a visa.) My charge was a little girl of five whose American English was virtually fluent. Pie-faced, virtuous and dressed in magenta Versace, Lucy was the irritating embodiment of the one-child policy's Little Empress symptom. Only with one difference: she had a brother.

Lucy's elder brother Dingding suffered from cerebral palsy, so he essentially didn't exist. Unlike most disabled children in his country, he had not been abandoned or killed and lived in the family home watching repetitive videos on his iPad in relative peace. A good boy, he was different from his sister in that he was unspoilt and unappreciated. When his existence was acknowledged, it was through threats with a lighter or beatings with a backscratcher (later used for similar purposes for the golden retriever we got). Strangers in the street would often stare and shout at him when he hit them. He and I communicated little, but when we did, he'd usually say HELLO and ask me about Spiderman or in one instance, I'd try to prevent him from masturbating on the plane.

Dayi took primary care of him. Chinese families have a myriad of family members in one house. Pudgy, Pob haircut and crescent-slit eyes, Dayi did little besides act as Dingding's carer and watch soap operas. Towards the the end she found a new hobby in being my nemesis and spreading rumours that I was trying to poison the children. She was like a Chinese Hans Christian Andersen. If I had a customer reviews page, Dayi'd give me one star and the comment: "you don't know where she's been."

Dayi's toady accomplice Lei Ayi was the slavelike housemaid who worshipped her employers. Lei Ayi's servility fascinated me. She was on call 24 hours a day. One night the host dad got back at 2am with drunken associates and a whole goat which she was ordered to cook that very instant, in her pyjamas. As I was awake, she meekly asked if I could help hold its body still while she hacked away at its spine on the patio. From 6am she would clean, tidy, watch Dingding when Dayi was physically or emotionally not there, and generally undertook the work of about three people. Unlike other neighbourhood Ayis however, she had no time to gossip or socialise and had zero days off a week. Her monthly pay was 3500 RMB (£350).

I pitied Lei Ayi before she started hiding fruit from me and yelling in Sichuanese. Such hard graft from a woman of 54 is superhuman and I suggested she find a more rewarding job in an expat household. But no, she enjoyed scuttling at the behest of her owners, running and shouting "I'm coming!" as soon as she heard her whistle name. Scuttle scuttle.
The orders came from the despotic matriarch. MJ was an iconic tiger-mother, glistening in Chanel and draped in mismatched Burberry. She was no airhead yummy mummy though. Determined that her daughter was, and would remain, the best, she bought the kid nauseating amounts of toys and clothes. Understandably the woman expected results in return, specifically piano prodigality, which for Lucy was a deal-breaker. Daily hour-long piano practice was ritualistic torture. The mother would be screaming "WHERE IS YOUR BRAIN" at the small girl trying to play Ode to Joy with tears and snot streaming down her clothes.

The kid's traumatic upbringing was illustrated in one particularly memorable event where she deliberately peed on the floor in front of guests. It was impressive. The other children were ecstatic. She was also pretty chuffed with herself until after the guests went home whereupon MJ took that omnipresent backscratcher to her baby's bottom in a big way. The bruises were hefty so I took a photo.

The child regularly threatened to kill herself and would start pinching her midriff in an attempt to rip out her intestines. It was a comical performance. Had she been related to me in any way I'd have been concerned about her emotional development. As it was, I just counted the months until the end of my contract and laughed pityingly at her future boyfriends.

Mr Zhao was elusive and nocturnal. He never spoke to me but he ran some sort of freight racket and took his accomplices golfing, which these days is condemned as an anti-Socialist activity of corrupt elites. Occasionally he offered me fruit, which I would eat pointedly in front of Lei Ayi. He compensated for his absence by throwing money at his children. On several occasions Lucy called me Dad, and it was not accidental.

We went on a ton of holidays which they deemed a treat I should be grateful for but which I saw as 24/7 childcare. The sort of places you should be barred from if you have a slobbery parasite attached to the end of your arm: hot springs, 5-star hotels, coconut beaches, historical monuments, places with sexy men. It was an unspoken assumption that in exchange for all these happy outings, not to mention the outrageous feasts (featuring shark fin soup), I would gladly overlook my contracted 25 weekly hours to be a "member of the family". That "member" who is poisonous and unclean because she drinks cold water and doesn't have nightly foot baths.

There were good times. Like when Lucy would tell her school chums about pollution and Hong Kong's political situation, or go off on one when people threw litter or gave her a toy "for girls". The best times were rare like glittery turds, when we could go to a friend's to play and I could fester in self-pity with other au pairs who had also been purchased by rich families. Those were the best days.

Qiubi was like a humping meteorite of fuzz and drool whose arrival gave me new purpose and drove a bigger wedge between me and Chinese society. The obese, clumsy golden retriever was my agony aunt, hug-beneficiary, leftover-rice receptacle, handsome responsibility. He took me for walks every day to the market where we knocked things over and became a local nuisance. Lucy loved to third-wheel our evening walks across the golf course and say we were a "cool team", but between me and Qiubi, she was little more than a moon-faced onus.

I guess that's the general gist of how it went down. At the risk of encouraging you to go sign up right this second, I'll wrap it up here. My intrinsic politeness prevented me from showing any dissatisfaction for eight months until I got so sick of it I ditched them one morning in Hong Kong to catch the protests. By evening, my unlicensed one-day absence had enraged MJ so much that after screaming at me as if I'd tried to play piano, she recklessly booked me the next flight back to Chengdu. I was beside myself with glee. Tomorrow was supposed to be Disneyland.

Being assigned a new family in Beijing was beautiful. Things happen in Beijing, and people stare less. I only missed Qiubi and Chengdu hotpot ── not even that, because Beijing has every food. If I regret anything, apart from the whole experience, it's not having requested a change earlier. The new children were obedient, seen and not heard. Playtime not homework. The housemaid digged me. The granny didn't give a shit. I had a work schedule. <3

For those reading this who are considering au-pairing in China, I say go for it. If you like kids and are willing to learn Chinese, you can be a happy little bleeder. If, however, you think children are a liability to civilization, don't put yourself through it. That's pretty self-evident. I don't think my Chinese would be at where it's at today if I hadn't done the time, but jesus, was it crap.

Thursday 26 March 2015

The Yuehui (The Date)

I like sitting by the window in my one-to-one Chinese class, which happens twice weekly in a French patisserie. It allows me to slyly people-watch during frequent moments of distraction.

So imagine, one day, the corner of my eye catching a flash of white frills. I double-take and behold through the glass a young girl striding by, instantly conspicuous amongst the shoddy pedestrians: dressed in a teasing yet pure snowy bridesmaid mini-dress paired with swan-like stilettos, a baby-blue handbag pendent on the crook of her slender frame’s elbow. Feigning obliviousness to the passing oglers, she looks absolutely ridiculous.

Then she’s gone, out of my sight and care. A few minutes later, I look up from my textbook to see her nesting egg-like at the table opposite. This is an opportunity for closer inspection.  Topping the not-so-virginal baptismal outfit is a cascade of black hair, not a strand out of place. Her cosmetically-enlarged irises artificially match the colour of her bag, but not the shape of her eyes, and a scrapeable layer of icing nearly masks ancient evidence of acne devastation on her golf-ball cheeks. Only an explosion of red on her dynamite lips completes the South-Korean flag colour theme.

She nests for an unknown amount of time, until an example of the word I've coincidentally just learnt – a 小鲜肉 (“Little Fresh Meat”) or urban dandy asserts himself on the chair facing hers, not before catching sight of my curious glances and throwing me a cheeky grin. He’s wearing a suit, and that’s about as much as can be said for him. After he brings her a drink, I leave them to it, and go back to trying to concentrate.

Another indefinite amount of time passes, maybe fifteen minutes, during which I only catch them sharing a quiet smirk at me stumbling over some Chinese sentences. Then suddenly they both spontaneously stand up. This abruptness is enough to recapture my attention, and I watch them march out of the patisserie, leaving behind two almost-untouched glasses of caffeinated froth. It’s only at this point that I realise they did not speak a single word to each other for the duration of what I’ll hesitantly describe as their date. Out of the door of the patisserie, as if choreographed, they turn on their heels and without a backward glance, separate in perfectly opposing directions.

Still naïve about modern Chinese society, especially when it comes to young courtship, I consider what I've just observed. Perhaps it was as it seemed; a Little Emperor and a Material Girl trying their luck for the sake of appearances, their overwhelming self-indulgence holding them back from conversing and even eating. Sometimes the Fu’erdai, the Rich Second Generation, make a point of leaving get-togethers early and their food untouched simply to give the impression that they have busy lives and better places to be. His opportunistic grin may have been a boastful indication of the Baifumei he’d bagged (Rich White Beauty), something for his mates and money to salivate over. Or maybe I got it all wrong and it was just a covert business deal. Or table-sharing that didn't quite fulfil expectations. Either way, I’d never seen anything as unromantically surreal.


The departure is so sudden it seems almost purposeful. Half-expecting them to return, I keep an eye on the frappés for about two minutes before swiping hers and sucking it down. Well, someone had to get lucky, right?

Sunday 15 March 2015

Lei Ayi

God, I hate Lei Ayi.

Lei Ayi is a servant, in the regular sense of the word. Rich Chinese families like my hosts dribble out around 4000rmb (£390) a month for an old-ish lady to clear up their filth, feed them, clothe them and generally rim them in other such ways, like some socially acceptable paraphilic infantilism. These housemaids (ayis) give up their families, hopes, dreams, and human dignity for chickenfeed from the hands of moneyed cunts who need someone to wipe their pooey arse.

Do I pity Lei Ayi? No. When I arrived she was a complete bellend to me. Wary of a new foreign intrusion into her territory, usurpment of some of her duties (involving the kid mostly) she yelled at me in Sichuanese like, every day. She didn’t like that I was putting a stop to her spoon-feeding the child and that I was refusing to tidy up its playtime mess alone. She would watch me with the beadiest eye when I crossed into the kitchen, and forbade me from eating certain foods (plum jam, cornflakes, mango) because they “belonged” to the Princess. Even though her mother had said I could help myself to whatever, because I was “part of the family”, something I never really felt like. Then after seeing me having a few, Lei Ayi started hiding strawberries from me. FOR REAL. HIDING STRAWBERRIES.

After a few months, it was evident I wasn’t going anywhere because the kid loved me and I was refusing to cave into this old lady’s constant harassment, so she started to relax a bit. She realised I’d taken a load off her back by making the kid more independent in the mornings, as well as teaching it that hitting the housemaid is unacceptable. So sanctions against me were slowly lifted; the tyrannical monopoly over the kitchen gave way a little and I could make myself fried eggs for breakfast once more. Around this time, an unspoken chumminess germinated; the recognition that both of us were dicked about by our fashionista she-master. At least I thought that was happening - one evening we exchanged miffed glances over the kitchen counter we’d been made to sit at whilst the host family and some guests supped in happy togetherness at the dining table.

But one day, just as lunch was about to be served, our gracious employer left the house saying she’d be back right away. Half an hour later and she still hadn’t returned, so I sated my wailing gut with an avocado sandwich, but Lei Ayi continued to linger, staring out of the window like a displaced refugee. Angry, I urged her “just eat! She always does this. I bet you she won’t come back.” When, two hours later she did, Lei Ayi triumphantly told her exactly what I’d said, grassing on me for my transgressive and unslavelike behaviour. I momentarily felt betrayed. Then I realised that, whilst she might, I don’t mind not being the bourgeoisie's bitch.

It’s not because Lei Ayi is clearly a basic bitch that I feel a lack of pity. I lack pity because she lets herself be treated like a domesticated dog. Fair enough, maybe it’s the best paid job she can get because of her lack of educational qualifications or other white-collar “skills”. She gets accommodation and food, and can send home her earnings to put her grandson through school and soften the blow for her mah-jong gambler husband. But the way she comes running, anytime day or night from whatever burdensome task, as soon as she hears her name screeched from the upstairs bedroom just makes me sick. I’m trying to teach the kid politeness and respect for other human beings but this is posed in stark contrast to the conspicuous mistreatment of Lei Ayi by the kid’s very own parents. Maybe I should blame them, who without Lei Ayi wouldn’t last half a day. Yet whilst I try to put her on an equal footing with them, or higher even because of her admirable tirelessness, she would never reciprocate this to me. She would lick their perineums and say it tastes like fortune cookies, and believe it too. A classic case of ragged-trousered philanthropism, the poor woman’s been brainwashed into believing that compared to them, she is scum. And if that’s what she wants, I’ll leave her to pant over their underpants.

Saturday 31 January 2015

Red Red Wine

Checking my emails, I spot one written in French from someone called 张大, claiming to be “votre amie cordialement”. As a result of my tendency to hand out my infos to any Chinese who asks for them, I lose track of new contacts, so I believe her. Their indistinguishable names don’t exactly help either. Anyway, she is inviting me to a French wine-imports company celebration, so being the untroubled free-wheeling Westerner that I am, I go along to this stranger’s alcohol-fuelled orgy.

I turn up to the stated venue an hour late, de rigeur. It’s held in a fancy hotel in the middle of a grey park, which, like Brighton, probably verges on pretty in the summertime. Apart from two ornamental Ukrainians employed by a White People-hiring agency, I am the only non-Chinese. I mill about like a loose grain of rice, and although I drink down any glass that is handed to me, my brain unfortunately continues to function. So I try one of the ice-breaking games; a sort of wine-connoisseur poker with related prizes that no one will ever win. I lose, obviously: after guessing correctly that the wine is French, I can’t pinpoint its fruity notes or estimate its relatively cheap price. Even after a year in France I’m still a wine derp.

I mosey over to check out the calligraphy guy. He’s swiping his big inky brush around with the same deftness as Ainsley Harriot with a meat cleaver. He doesn’t say a lot, but that’s the thing with wise grey men in China: the less you say, the wiser you look. He hands me a toddler brush, motions vaguely at the paper and I write my name in Chinese. He looks vastly confused, because I’ve written something that sounds like Sally, but most likely translates as “Withered Plum”. Disdained that I have offended his brush and culture in this way, he lights a fag and I leave him forever.

A few brave souls dare to approach me to add me on WeChat and/or give me their card and just as I start to get crabby about the overload of people talking to me but not TALKING to me, 张大 comes over and warmly shakes my hand, saying how happy he is I’m there. I suddenly remember my “amie” (turns out he’s male) as one of the many who have accosted me on the aeroplane when the family abandon me in economy class. He leads me into the grand supper hall to the table of the spare WAGs, most of who are super friendly but overdo the compliments to the point of supplementary unease on my part. Then the show begins.

There’s hosts and everything. Not that I’d know, but it’s what I’d imagine watching the X Factor is like, with nostalgic background videos and heartrending picture slideshows and a lucky draw for an enormous air purifier which is outrageously won by a woman who puts ammonia in her hair. Finally after about an hour of this fecund gala, the nosh begins to be brought out and there is an attractive man sitting next to me who speaks fluent English and French. Maybe the wine is finally kicking in, but I’m rather starting to enjoy myself.

I indulge in such unsexy greediness that the sexy man remarks on how hungry I must be. Across the table, the other laydeez have had so much to drink and so little to eat that one of them is in a coma and vomiting on herself. She falls on the floor and other drunkards try to help her up, creating a lovely pile of plastered wealthy Asians. There’s too much food and too much wine; most of what’s on the table is left untouched and the number of obligatory toasts and glass clinking is just getting ridiculous. 

Eventually张大brings his bloated pink face veering towards me, to let me know that I am a queen who speaks many languages. I want to escape on a rocket but another woman tells me we live on the same golf course so she can give me a lift home. Initially delighted at not having to rush off early for the bus, I sit there and wait for her. And wait. People begin to leave. I wait.

On the banquet tables amidst the weeping mothers and jewel encrusted daddies lies the luxurious waste of China’s new Baroque: unopened crab appendages, rapidly browning kumquats, half-smoked cigars and rare steaks whose blood is beginning to clot. Go outside and you’ll see grannies sweeping the streets for pennies to fund their son’s son’s education, sustaining on rice porridge and corn milk. With this in mind, I make friends with the grand piano as I await my ride home and provide a shitty theme for the imaginary rolling credits.

Thanks 张大, you really opened my proverbial eyes. I wish I could do the same for you.

Tuesday 20 January 2015

If I were queen for a day (off-topic)

The Guardian has a section where they let contributors speculate on what they would do if they were king or queen for a day. I like this idea, but I’m not important enough to write for the Guardian so I’m gonna copy them in this corner on my own.

If I were queen for a day, I would seize hegemonic control of all major media outlets. I’d make quite an exceedingly unpopular queen, especially seeing the recent hubbub concerning censorship and free speech for journalism, and the importance of tackling stories and events from multiple perspectives. But the reason I’d take such a draconian and maternalistic measure is because I feel that this is not done enough.

So this is how it’d work. I’d have 24-hour rolling news coverage on the main terrestrial TV channels, probably categorised under Societal, Economic, Political and Environmental/Scientific. As the day’s global events panned out, some algorithmic brainbox would work out, taking into account a variety of factors, which events across the world (and beyond?) are most newsworthy. These factors would include things like body count, amounts of people displaced, modification to the global environment, tax evaded, censorship, agricultural and industrial degradation, investment in commodities, social upheaval, importance to scientific and technological advancement etc. Basically anything that has an effect on our humble little world. And the mathemagician would take all of these things and allocate airtime proportionally to the events and stories as they unfold, correlated to primetime viewership. Things she would overlook in the selection process would be notoriety of individuals, language, creed and religion, national boundaries and proximity. These would only be brought up as content if they were vital to the stories themselves, and not be used as influences on airtime allocation. Radio and newspapers would be subject to a similar fate, but I would leave channels such as Yesterday, BBC4, Film4, NatGeo untouched. There’s only so much global famine, warfare, environmental annihilation, political wheeler-dealing, corruption and inequality one can take in a day without a bit of creative light relief, or Michael Portillo. Plus I hardly want to be a despot.

Here’s the reason. Right now, the top story on my “Trending” majig on Facebook is “Jessie J: Musician performs her single ‘Big Bang’ on ‘The Graham Norton Show’ with her mouth closed”. I’m pretty out of touch but I think trending means news that is currently popular. If this is the sort of news that the average UK netizen (who represents the average UK citizen) deems shareable or essential to human existence, excuse me while I go and weep. I don’t know if I blame them or the outlets that propagate this kind of bull: on the one hand, the outlets write what sells, on the other, people read what they’re given. Chicken or egg?

Well, egg I think. We can no longer feign embryo-like powerlessness as an excuse for our national ignorance. With the internet, we can effortlessly find out from a plethora of sources and accounts exactly what is happening on our planet, when and where. We can’t lay the blame on mum and dad for only buying the Daily Mail, or saying that ITV News at 6 is the only news delivery service for the sedentary. But, it seems too many people are too lazy to explore elsewhere, and in this age of explosive globalisation, hi-tech weaponry, and the very uncertainty of our environment’s continuance, we need movement, we need large-scale action. We need to give our media a colossal makeover. For one day at least; at least.

This, I naïvely hope, would open our minds, and most importantly our youngest generations’ minds, to our worldly insignificance and need to co-operate internationally. Obviously my one day of mass media requisition would only do a good job of pissing people off and making you all feel helpless whilst conglomerates financially sedate our leaders and eat up the people’s share. But it could be the start of a new media era. When we start to realise that the news we’re used to is highly discriminatory and narrow, and when the true suffering is given more prominence in our daily lives, we may reconsider our voting patterns, preferred charities (or lack thereof), consumer habits and even personal ambitions. And I believe this will germinate the seed for solid, worldwide salvation.


Oh, and my final decree would be to do away with the monarchy. But that’s another story.

Sunday 18 January 2015

I went for a run

This is going to be a short post because I am currently in a state of trauma.

I went for a run today. In China.

Let’s take it back a few months. When I was at home, in Caversham’s luscious pastures, I ran 10k twice weekly (BRAG BRAG SPORT BRAG). Feeling sassy, I went today for the first time since Caversham. The weather seemed tender, I’d had pork fat for breakfast and I needed to get away from the kid.

WHY WHY WHY.

That would’ve been a good time to remember that the pollution levels in China are apparently the equivalent of having a pack of cigarettes a day (my sole excuse for smoking – “well it’ll make no difference”) and China can make watermelons explode. I’m not sure how bad the environment is in Chengdu compared to Beijing, but since the sky is just a grey haze, it’s safe to say running is probably a death sport.

Anyway I started out all sassy like I said, thinking about all the bragging potential I would accrue. Within about 20 seconds my internal organs started failing, which I put down to not having run for ages. Within 20 MINUTES, my eyeballs were rolling back into my skull and I was throwing up a pool of greyish gloop at the side of the road, whilst Taylor Swift squealed mockingly into my eardrums. (Usual music tastes do not apply when wheezing around dressed in lycra). The pride was no more.

Safe to say I’m not doing that again for a long time. I feel hungover now, but a pollution hangover which is worse because there are no fun memories from last night or phone calls from randomers who might kill me. No, the pollution can do that instead. But it could strike at any time. Maybe when I’m sleeping, maybe in a few days when I’m finishing the Lego castle the kid got for Christmas. I don’t know.

Am I paranoidly blaming pollution unfairly? Maybe my recent lack of fitnesse and renewed taste for cancer sticks are the real criminals. But seriously. The air cannot be serious.


At least now I don’t have to pretend I like running, I can just say I don’t want to actively give myself a tumour, and a smog-induced “runner’s high” might be so extreme I end up writhing on the floor trying to lick soot off my brain.

Tuesday 6 January 2015

A serious note

“I really like Putin.”

“You think he’s sexy?”

“No. I think he’s a good example of strong leadership.”

The cracks are beginning to show, and I’m having to dance around them.

Called a Yotaphone, MJ got this special New Year’s gift from her husband. It’s quite something: boasting two screens, one on each side, it’s a sleek, sexy Russian PA that fits in a handbag. How else could the Slavs outdo Apple, aside from building a gizmo so up its own arse it's incompatible with any other protective casing, liable to break in the hands of any ditsy yummy-mummy (I have seen her try and fail to piece together a 20-piece children's jigsaw). She fondles it and swoons. “Putin gave one of these to Xi Jinping. And now I have one.”

I needn’t be surprised. Last month in Hunan province, cradle of Chinese communism, we went to a restaurant nostalgically serving Mao Zedong’s favourite slap-up dishes. My host family and their zillionaire guests bowed to the statue of him which was placed at the entrance, whilst I shifted around tectonically. Maybe I’m being naïve, but how can the ideals of communism possibly align with this kind of exorbitance? Risking my monthly bonus, good-girl status and perhaps my job, I can’t bow to the cold hard representation of a man whose massacres multiply outnumbered Hitler and Stalin’s combined.

The admiration for corrupt degenerates and the skidmarks of a blackened past clearly have an arresting grip amongst the highest echelons of Chinese society. They send their kids to Playdoh club at the world’s largest building up the road, without sparing a thought for its developer, disappeared under mysterious and implausible corruption charges. Their daughter holds Hong Kong nationality in order to go to a prestigious international school, and yet the callous suppression of the Umbrella Movement is of no concern to her or them. They kneel at sunny Buddhist temples, while elsewhere Falun Gong practitioners are tortured in cells. I feel like asking, where were you on May 25th 1989? But perhaps their memories are clouded under a tizzy of capitalist winnings. Ironically. You live easy, eat your shark and birds nest and never forget to say grace to Mao.


Never forget.