Business unusual (part 2)

Peter continues his account of his weekend trip to Lang Ya Shan...

Saturday was conference day. After an impenetrable breakfast of spicy noodles and various strange pickled vegetables, the real business began. First on was young Earnest Vet, who worked for one of the international drug companies. Although all in Chinese, most of his slides told the story quite well, plus I wasn’t much interested anyway, so I didn’t bother to get Kevin to translate for me. We were well provided with Chinese tea – large green tea leaves in a cup that is often topped up by a waitress with hot water from a flask. You kind of have to strain it through your teeth.

Next up was Dr Boffin. He was unbelievably boring. I have seen some awful presentations in my time but this was definitely prizeworthy. His subject matter was quite important to me – several of his slides overlapped what I was going to say – but he had lost the audience within five minutes. An interesting slide would be followed by five or six slides full of mathematical formulae involving logarithms to base e.

Now, in the west, if a speaker is a bit boring we try our best – don’t we – to be polite? We might stare into space and find ourselves thinking about what’s for dinner; what our partner might be doing back home; what was on the telly last night. In China they talk loudly to the people beside them. They turn completely around so their back is to the speaker and conduct group conversations with those behind them. They get out their mobile phones and call friends with a poor signal so that they have to shout. In short; it was like what happens in a primary school class when the teacher nips out for a ciggy. (Does that still happen? It certainly did in my day). Having a microphone didn’t help Dr Boffin at all – he still couldn’t be heard at all over the din. On one occasion he asked the audience whether that point was clear – there was a sudden few seconds of silence that spread like a wave around the room. People even turned around towards the front to see whether anything interesting had finally happened, some clearly put out that their conversation had been interrupted. Then someone near the front answered ‘no, not really’ so he was off again, with ever more detailed explanations whilst the audience returned to their own little worlds.

When he had finally finished, Dr Smooth took the mike. Dr Smooth was an independent technical adviser to Mine Host’s company and was due to speak later in the afternoon, but had obviously decided to try to save the day for Dr Boffin. He had Charisma. Buckets of. And a swept back leonine mane, just greying enough to add an air of refinement. It seems he lives in California, which probably explains a lot. In less than ten minutes he summed up Dr Boffin’s entire hour-and-a-half presentation in a very engaging and memorable manner. He cooed into the microphone. He whispered and they hung on to every word. He raised his voice to make the point and they all nodded emphatically (except the two wifies who chatted incessantly throughout the entire day, obviously). I was impressed.

Next was lunch in the lakeside restaurant, and then I was on. I had been a little concerned about having the post-lunch graveyard slot but, as the only westerner in the village, I was enough of a novelty to keep them engaged. I got a rousing cheer for introducing myself in Chinese and after that they were very good to me. Dr Ssu translated – he is quite a good speaker anyway - so I decided on the tactic of soundbite bullet points, each of which was instantly translated, and it seemed to work. I watched one old guy at the back gradually fall asleep but, apart from the two chatting wifies (who even listened for a few minutes at the beginning before resuming their conversation) they listened quite well.

After me it was Dr Smooth’s allotted slot so he began to smooth them some more. This time he didn’t have it so easy and got quite a bit of heckling. Chatting wifies chatted throughout and I think it was when he stopped talking and stared at them with a smoothie smile that things began to go wrong for him. This was taking liberties. It’s as though they can only take so much smooth at one go. Either that or they were just exhausted at being so quiet for my presentation. Whatever the reason, they were simply not going to believe some of the things he told them, and that was that.

Then came question time. All the speakers sat in front of microphones at the top table and the audience was invited to supply written questions. Some small gift was given to those whose questions were answered as a wee incentive.

We were flooded. The questions were quite good too, and demonstrated that at least some people had been listening throughout. They just kept on coming and coming. After an hour and a quarter and with more of the audience still waving the girls over to collect questions, Mine Host Jason had to call a halt whilst we answered the final eight. It was after 5.30 by now, we had been at it all day and wanted a rest before the onslaught that is dinner.

The audience really perked up then because it was prize time. Each speaker had been asked to give two questions to MH, the answers to which would appear in the presentation. These questions must have been distributed at some stage because the slips were all collected at the end and put into a raffle box. Most of the prizes were fairly small things donated by the companies involved. We supplied pens, mugs and backpacks all bearing our logo. Someone else supplied fleece jackets. The two top prizes were quite presentable though; a nice camera and a laptop. The whole affair was a bit drawn out with many looks of palpable disappointment as the crappy presents were distributed first, raising the excitement level for the final two. As the top table speakers took it in turns to pull the question slips out of the box I noticed that no attempt had been made to mark the papers. My questions were mostly answered correctly – I had made them pretty easy – but I didn’t see one single attempt to answer Dr Boffin’s questions. Some hadn’t answered any questions at all.

I finally got about seven minutes’ break before dinner. Mine Host was delighted with the day and sat me at his right hand, dismissing Kevin to a different table to make more room for the important guests. MH assured me that he would interpret, and his English being quite good, I concurred.

This was not a good idea as it turned out. He spent about 15 minutes at my table then set off on a tour of all the other tables delivering amiable good charm and lashings of baijo. When he returned to our table an hour later he was definitely not in a good way. His shirt was completely untucked and he began to mop his brow and complain of the heat.

Everyone then adjourned en masse to the KTV (karaoke) bar. The Chinese simply adore karaoke and will deny any suggestion that it’s a Japanese invention (but then they claim to have invented everything, including football). Indeed in Harbin we are often reduced to sleeping with ear-plugs in to block out the, ahem, dulcet strains of over-amplified ‘singing’ coming from the KTV bar next to our flat there – which sometimes goes on until 5am.

Anyway the farmers were well up for it that night. Going to join in the fun, I discovered however that the only drink on offer in the so-called ‘bar’ was tea. With what I thought was extreme presence of mind, I quickly slipped back into the dining hall and grabbed a mostly full bottle of something from the nearest table before it was cleared away. Sadly it turned out to be the revolting ‘dark baijo’, which I proceeded to struggle through. As my grandad would have said, I was glad when I’d finished it. I also – confession-time now – lost my karaoke virginity. With ‘Yesterday’. It was good for me. I was also the only singer to get a round of applause, probably because unlike all the others I was obviously able to sing the original words.

After that, I must confess the evening becomes a little hazy. MH was last seen slumped in a corner somewhere. Kevin had made an early exit and was nowhere to be seen. I finally retired to bed, silently thanking my parents for endowing me with a sturdy Irish constitution and wondering what state the Chinese would be in for the following morning’s sightseeing trip.

At this point my correspondent, pleading lack of time, concludes his account, so I'll just fill you in quickly with what I know of the following day's activities. The entire party - apparently looking remarkably healthy despite the previous evening's festivities - were taken to visit an old villa and a living monastery with integral Buddhist temple in the hills beneath which the hotel was built. Dr Ssu and Kevin both came over a bit religious. Peter did his best to enjoy the sightseeing - a process hampered by the fact that they were accompanied by approximately 9000 Chinese tourists aged 4 to 104, including about 70 school parties being escorted around the sites by students talking loudly into megaphones.

It quickly became apparent that Peter was probably the first westerner most of them had ever seen, as around forty 11-year-old schoolgirls queued up to have their picture taken with him. One actually trembled with excitement - or it could have been terror - when he put his arm around her for the photo. Nearly all wore t-shirts bearing text in 'English'. As usual though they didn’t believe in spell-checkers or proof reading so a good percentage had typos. A selection included 'Aple blossm', 'Memory make happy always' … and Peter's favourite: 'Harvard Univirsity'.

Then it was back on the bus for the long journey home - only 6 hours this time if you don't count the two hours required for Jason to get someone to come and unlock his office where he had left his car keys, so that he could drive Peter home.

Finally just a few more photos just to give you the general idea.

Business unusual (part 1)

As the last week has seen me do little of interest except poring over Mothercare catalogues, I thought for a change I would invite a guest correspondent (Peter) to regale you with his tale of a conference he attended a couple of weekends ago. Here in Shanghai it's easy to kid oneself that China is quite westernised really. The following account shows just how wrong such an assumption is. Enjoy.


We have recently taken on an agent who will sell our products to farmers in the Shanghai and Nanjing areas. The company was founded and is run by Jason. Jason is a rotund, jolly Chinese man who possesses considerably more acumen than is evident at first sight, like one or two publicans I have come across in the past. I was supposed to have addressed two seminars – one in each city – that he organised several weeks ago but these were postponed at the last minute due to an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease in the area. The ministry got on with the job of wholesale slaughter without feeling the need to let the general public know about it or anything. Anyway they appear to have contained the disease because Jason got the go ahead last week to arrange farmer meetings again.

This time, rather than hold separate meetings, he decided on a different tack. He got us and two other companies whose products he sells to split the cost with him of a conference in the mountain resort of Lang Ya Shan, ‘a four hour drive’ away in neighbouring Anhui province. We were all to travel there by coach (via a factory belonging to one of the participating companies) on Friday, have a full day’s conference on Saturday with presentations by all the suppliers; then half a day sightseeing on Sunday morning before returning home. The opportunities for enormous banquets with much drink, good humour and guanxi would then clearly be maximised. Basically it would more or less be me versus 80 Chinese farmers. I could hardly wait.

Jason (Mine Host) picked us up in the driving rain early on Friday morning – me, our sales director Dr Ssu, and Kevin, who still couldn’t believe his luck that I had let him come along. The poor lad never gets to leave the Harbin office very often and, because he works for Boss and me who already speak English, he missed out entirely on a recent UK trip that all the other company interpreters enjoyed.

Mine Host took us to his office, an hour’s wet drive away on the northern suburbs of Shanghai, outside which an empty coach stood waiting. We were first ushered upstairs into a smoke-filled boardroom where, dimly through the fug, I got my first idea of what 80 Chinese farmers looked (and sounded!) like. Over breakfast of fruit, bread rolls (the sugary Chinese ones) and bottled water, MH did a formal welcome presentation giving the history and success record of his (several) companies before we were allowed to board the bus.

As we groaned through the pouring rain it became apparent that the coach had seen better days. Like in an aircraft, each seat had four switches above it for light, air control etc. none of which worked. No seatbelts. Obviously. Looking about, several seats had been crudely welded together. I’d prefer not to think about how they got damaged in the first place. I’m also not sure if the driver knew when to change gear, as it juddered up every hill and he almost stalled it a couple of times before we got to the motorway.

At least no-one was smoking though, which was a huge relief. Possibly worse than smoke though was the muzak blaring from a speaker just above my head. It alternated between trashy rock numbers with razor guitar riffs to big-voiced slow ballads. Having a headache to start with I eventually had to send Kevin to ask the driver to turn it down, which he did for approximately eleven minutes before it was back to full volume again.

We had a wee and fag stop about 11.30 at the M-way services. Kevin said the farmers couldn’t believe it when they were ushered back onto the coach – they wanted to know where lunch was; 11.30 being the usual lunchtime in China. Even the ‘box of strangeness’ that we have for lunch every day in the Harbin office usually arrives before 11.15. Luckily I had brought sandwiches just in case so I was alright, Jack. It was at this point that I noticed Mine Host wasn’t with us - up at the front of the bus as I had thought. It seems he had an important meeting and would join us by car later.

Soon afterwards we went through an M-way toll gate and were immediately pulled over to a waiting area by the side of the road for a routine police check. Twenty minutes later the driver was still talking heatedly to the policeman, surrounded by smoking farmers, so I sent Kevin to find out what was going on. It seems the driver had a fake driving licence.

Needing to stretch my legs now I wandered around the checkpoint area. All across the hoarding the length of the area were 20 or so giant posters showing horrific traffic accidents, most with close ups of mangled people or bits of people. On one of them the picture was blurred, but the inset photo of Princess Di sporting a dreadful 80s perm gave away the reason for its inclusion. I didn’t realise she was recognised here but I suppose the world’s best known road accident victim is an icon the world over.

An hour later and I was extremely glad of my sandwiches and reading book. They let us go eventually. The story now was that it wasn’t a fake driving licence but a wrong, or possibly out of date, licence for the coach itself. Apparently the bus company would get a few days to put the matter right. By now it was around 2.00 and we pulled off the M-way into a village where there was a nice little restaurant for a quick lunch. I was a bit hungry again by now so the farmers must have been suffering. There were even traditional costumes and folk musicians to meet us.

After that it was still an hour and a half to the factory. In true Chinese style, the entire bus save for me and the driver slept soundly all the way there. I could probably have done so if it hadn’t been for the omnipresent muzak, by now at lower volume but at that irritating boom-chack boom-chack level that reminded me of toothache.

Now, our company has five factories in China and this one was one of our major worldwide competitors so I felt a bit strange, not to mention exposed, when we all donned white coats and silly mop-caps for the tour. Dr Ssu’s cunning plan to give his camera to Kevin (who was dressed and looked generally more like the farmers), and pretend to be my interpreter himself whilst Kevin indulged in some amateur industrial espionage, backfired when they said we couldn’t take cameras inside the plant.

We FINALLY reached the resort destination at just after 7.00 (the ‘four hour drive’ thus having taking approximately eleven hours from when I was picked up at home) and dinner was meant to have been at 6.00 so it was dump the stuff and dash.

The place was a lot bigger than I expected – an entire resort hotel sort of thing set in a steep wooded gorge (my window was just feet from a sheer rock-face) with lots of open covered walkways passing by carp ponds linking different buildings. Whilst clearly being a holiday resort, there were no concessions for westerners; none of the staff spoke English, though most of the signs were bilingual – well Chinglish, anyway; we ate for example in the Anquet Hall. The hotel brochure was a spectacularly bad approximation of my native language. It’s as though they had given it to the manager’s primary school age child to translate, without bothering to get it checked by a real English speaker. I got the feeling that I was the first non-Chinese person ever to visit there.

Most impressive of all was the list of products on sale in the guest rooms. You’ll get the idea if you refer to an earlier post describing my experiences at a hotel in Yi’an, but this one, being a flashier place entirely, had more variety on offer. For some reason, Chinese hotels seem to imagine that their guests will have neglected to pack any underwear and so often have men’s briefs on sale in the rooms. This one offered a range, however, including ‘Women knickets’ and ‘Fatmen’s underwear’. Where the ordinary men’s briefs packet was illustrated with the standard posing western male model type, the Fatmen’s alternative showed a portly Indian gent.

You could also purchase, among other things, various teas, vermicelli, playing cards, ‘compressed towel’, and, for the ladies, ‘Women lotion – an adult-only pudenda washing lotion’. This delightful product, it seemed, could ‘clean the adult pudenda quickly and effectively, forming a protective barrier at the using part to protect human body from filth.’ It could also ‘relieve pruritus and get rid of peculiar smell’. Now you can’t say these Chinese hotel proprietors don’t think of everything. The whole (extensive) list of products ended with the promise – or warning, it was hard to tell which – ‘In the event of shortages of goods or adjustement period, whitout prior notice, locations!’

Dinner was the by now familiar banquet, with courses arriving all the time, much individual and collective toasting with baijo (52% alcohol Chinese hooch), m???jo (a wine-strength disgusting liquid) and beer flowing freely. By some accident or design the Chinese expression ‘gan bei’ means both ‘cheers’ and ‘bottoms up’ so mealtimes can be quite a challenge for some. As has been noted before, the Chinese don’t drink very much, if at all, but at least half the farmers had at least some beer. One large farmer across the table took a shine to me when he saw me ‘gan bei’ with the real stuff so he kept up a steady flow of banter, then later presented me his business card in a formal, if somewhat unsteady, manner. It seems I'd made a friend.


To be continued.....

Tips for the society hostess in China

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the society lady who wishes to create a favourable impression upon her guests shall be expected to provide, in the context of any social function - be it grand or humble - to which she chooses to invite such guests, an evening comprising the following elements: fine wine and ales, stimulating conversation (in which said guests should at all costs be encouraged to mingle and discourse with others not of their prior acquaintance), musical entertainment, and, should she feel sufficiently daring to attempt this, a little communal dancing.

For those ladies as possess the imagination and the fortitude to attempt such a social event in the land of China, however, it must be recommended that a few addenda or annotations to the above advice be inserted, for the mutual benefit of all.

Firstly, a word regarding the guest list and the arrival of said guests. The society hostess in China cannot expect her guests to be ‘fashionably late’. On the contrary, she can expect them, if informed that the festivities will commence at eight o’clock, to meet in B&Q car park at ten minutes to that hour, and arrive all at once. (Note: this may exclude such guests as English Boss, who may choose to make a later entrance, all red face and bare feet, protesting that he has ‘rushed straight from the gym’. Such behaviour is, of course, his prerogative, and must be tolerated.) If the guests have been given prior permission to bring further guests of their own, the hostess should not be perturbed to discover that they will assume this invitation extends to young children, who may thus appear without warning.

Now on the subject of fine wine and ales. Try as she might to encourage her guests to partake of such excellent refreshments, the society hostess will find herself thwarted by their insistence, to a man, that they will take only ‘the non-alcoholic version’ of the mulled wine, please. The author’s proposed solution to this difficulty is simple: do not make a non-alcoholic version. Or at the very least, mention it only very quietly to those for whom alcohol is known to be strictly prohibited. Tell everyone else that the mulling process removes almost all traces of alcohol from the wine.

On the plus side, the hostess will find herself at the end of the evening with almost as much wine and exactly as much beer as she had at the start. This will compensate for the fact that no one - apart, again, from English Boss - will bring any alcoholic beverages with them. They may, of course, bring other gifts, which are most welcome, even if unsought, and will be gratefully received.

The question of stimulating talk provides a greater challenge. It is difficult to sustain a conversation with a person whose two words of one’s native tongue are ‘Hello’ and ‘Bye-bye!’, especially if the only words one knows oneself in their native tongue happen, by unfortunate chance, to be a translation of the exact same two words. The opportunities for philosophical discussion are, under these circumstances, understandably limited. Pointing, gesturing and smiling will only get even the most accomplished of hostesses so far. Of course, conversation may be attempted with those of the guests who do speak English, but these are not always readily identifiable.

The chief difficulty, however, lies in the fact that the art of ‘mingling’ – so crucial to the truly successful social occasion – has yet to be introduced to China. Thus, what may at first appear to be an example of another universal truth – namely, that all parties eventually end up in the kitchen – will prove in fact to be an attempt by the Chinese guests to simulate their own notion of a party by all sitting around a large (and, it must be said, imaginary) table in the dining room, talking amongst themselves at an elevated volume. As English Boss may be heard to point out, the reason why party guests usually gravitate to the kitchen is that this is where the fine wine and ales are generally to be found, but clearly this motivation is not a factor where our abstemious Chinese friends are concerned.

This will leave our host and hostess making an attempt to engage the one other western guest (Wildon’s English teacher) in a discussion regarding the habits and haunts of the local expatriate community. Unfortunately, he is entirely ignorant of such matters and appears, moreover, to wish he was anywhere else but at our hostess’s party, so this proves equally unsatisfying.

In these circumstances it may be considered best to cut straight to the communal dancing and musical entertainment.

These, prefaced by the distribution of the traditional ‘dram’ to all, should be led by mine host – attired, of course, in full Highland regalia (kilt: Lidl, £24.99) – and will feature such delights as the Gay Gordons and a Reduced Virginia Reel. (Note: this is not as enjoyable as the Gender-Confused Eightsome Reel, but this is strictly for the more advanced practitioner). The Chinese guests may, at first, be more willing spectators than participants. One or two may choose the melee as a suitably distracting moment at which to make a swift exit and sit in the car because the hostess’s home is too hot, even though it is minus 22° outside, but with a little persistence most can be induced to join in the fun, and can be heard to remark afterwards that they greatly admired the host’s ‘skirt’ – indeed, that it was the highlight of the evening - and that they had heard that 'Scottish men wore stripy skirts’ but had never actually seen one in the flesh, as it were.

Following this gaiety, a little light flute-playing and a discussion on the technicalities of playing the Chinese flute or dizi may be employed to calm the mood again from that of excitement to one of gentle relaxation.

After quite a lot of this, our hostess may find herself fervently wishing her guests would leave. In this instance, some gracious and well-chosen words to signal that the evening is at an end, and to express her gratitude and pleasure at her guests’ attendance and her dearest wish that she may see them again soon in the near future, are appropriate. Something along the lines of, ‘Come on you ‘orrible lot, get out of my house’. Otherwise she will find herself waiting until one of them plucks up the courage to enquire tentatively whether, at eleven o’clock, it is ‘ok if they leave now?’. Since they consider it rude to leave before ‘the end’ and she considers it rude to tell them it is the end, both sides could be in for a very long night unless someone takes the bull by the horns. And thus, the evening concludes.

Footnote: the consumption, thereafter, of the remainder of the whisky by, say, host and Boss should be approached with caution.

Party planning, part 2

Oh God. It's out of control. Someone's actually coming specially from Beijing. Peter keeps hearing excited chat around the office - he can tell, because there doesn't appear to be a Chinese word for 'party'. This doesn't bode well. The problem seems to be that Chinese people never organise anything more than a day in advance - they were amazed by the concept of a diary in which you write down appointments - so obviously to them anything which requires several weeks of planning must be the social event of the decade, if not the century.

Tomorrow Kevin is emailing everyone to confirm the details. So I reckon I have about 12 hours in which to come up with an escape plan. Faking my own death sounds too complicated to engineer in such a short time, so the best course of action would seem to be to relocate to Thailand where, apparently (don't know if this is just under the current state of emergency or always), gatherings of more than five people are illegal.

Today's conversation on the matter went as follows.
Kevin: What time do western parties start?
Peter: It depends, but usually about 8 o'clock.
K (shocked): 8 o'clock??!! Is very late.
P: Well actually some don't start until 10 o'clock.
K (scandalised): 10 o'clock????!!!!!
P (thinking it best not to explain that this was so that some of the guests could go to the pub and get drunk first, then roll up when the pubs close at 11 - or, in Scotland, 12): Well they tend to start late because, like I told you, people have their tea before they come out. So 8 should be fine.
K: Ah yes. So, what food will there be? [Does this boy think of nothing but his stomach?]
P: Party nibbles.
K: And what are they?
P: Crisps, nuts, olives....
K (with obvious lack of enthusiasm): Cheese?
[Kevin tried cheese for the first time at Boss's party a couple of months ago, and found it revolting. It was Camembert, mind you, which tastes like old socks to me, and I like cheese.]
P: Well, yes, cheese.
K: I should have come with you to supermarket, buy things I like!
P: What do you like?
K: Only joking. So, what time will the party end?
Boss (who's been listening with increasing amusement the whole time and seems keen to stir): 5 am! [Boss and Peter laugh].
Kevin (horrified): Really??!
Peter: No. It will end when all the beer is drunk.
K: Ah. I see.

Or, I would add, when all the guests are incapable, whichever is the sooner.

So, as things currently stand, we have six bottles of wine for mulling, but no spices with which to mull them, as Peter was unable to identify cinnamon or cloves in the supermarket. Mince pies have been abandoned as simply a challenge too far, short of flying down to Shanghai to see if Marks & Spencer's have them in their food hall there. But then, even if they did, they would probably all have been snapped up by now by desperate expats, who had managed to virtually clear the shelves of food within four days of the place opening when we were last there, prompting the shop to display apologetic notices explaining how they'd had to send to the UK for more supplies. Seriously. Imagine the years of M&S withdrawal symptoms which must have led to this behaviour. It's like Ikea's Edinburgh launch all over again.

But to return to the matter in had. So, warm, fruity but possibly spiceless mulled wine, possibly with a dash of brandy then, to make it more interesting - check. 'Nibbles', for people who are used to having a full meal when they go out - check. Large quantities of beer - check. Gigantic bottle of whisky so that everyone can be offered a dram in true Scottish style - check. Twenty or more Chinese guests, unused to alcohol - check. Energetic Scottish dancing - possibly.

Result? Large-scale puking, us picking comatose Chinese bodies out of wardrobes and shower cubicles for the next two days, a riot, and a major pileup on the roads, leading to our almost inevitable arrest and deportation? Probably.

It's my party and I'll sulk if I want to

Blimey. We seem to have unleashed a monster with this party of ours.

To be honest my enthusiasm for the whole idea has been waning rapidly, especially since we had to postpone it from the original date. Hallowe’en’s been and gone, it’s not Christmas yet, it’s cold, dark and miserable (oh hang on, maybe it IS Christmas?), and warming our flat three months after we moved in and when we’ve hardly been here seems a little strange. Plus it means tidying and cleaning. So in a fit of the Scrooginess from which I occasionally suffer, I was all for cancelling the bloody thing once and for all.

But it is not to be. Forces beyond my control have seized upon the idea, swept it up and carried it – with the keenness that only the Chinese can demonstrate – to heights far beyond those I ever envisaged.

It started when we finally decided on a date – Dec 6th, so that Boss would be back from holiday – and Peter told Kevin. Kevin strode into the main office and made an announcement to the rest of the staff. There were murmurs of approbation, followed by a short exchange. Then Kevin returned, stuck his head around the door and asked, ‘Is it true that at western parties, you don’t get a meal?’

‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘You get party nibbles, but the main idea is to drink, dance and talk. Tell them they should all have their dinner before they come’.

Kevin retreated and conveyed this information to the astounded company. Murmurs of amazement, curiosity and mystification were heard, possibly due to Kevin’s attempts to render the phrase ‘party nibbles’ into Chinese, which I imagine would pose a challenge for the most accomplished translator.

A couple of weeks elapsed and, like I say, I had seriously started to go off the idea. Peter occasionally let slip that someone at work had ‘mentioned’ the party, or ‘asked about’ the party, and tried to float some tentative questions about what we should buy, but I refused to be drawn.

Then at the beginning of this week, Peter was walking past the main office when he heard animated conversation and laughter from within. He walked in, keen to see what excitement was unfolding, and the conversation stopped. The Chinese people looked at him, then at one another, then back at him. He looked at Kevin, who explained, ‘We were just talking about your party. Everyone is really looking forward to it!’

‘Oh?’ said Peter, a little alarmed by the obvious air of excitement in the room, stealing an anxious glance at Eileen. Eileen is a bobbysocked lass from the next office whom I have yet to meet, but who apparently behaves like the love-child of Tigger and an entire troupe of cheerleaders. Mercifully, on this occasion, she seemed relatively subdued.

Another Chinese girl spoke shyly to Kevin. ‘She says, is it really true she can bring her husband?’ he translated.

‘Oh yes’, replied Peter expansively. ‘Bring partners. Definitely!’

Another woman asked something in English which Peter didn’t hear but which produced gales of laughter from those who understood. On being asked to repeat it, she replied hysterically, ‘I said, can I bring my parents?!’

‘And there’s definitely no food?’ said Kevin.

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?

What are these people expecting?? Is the whole of Harbin going to turn up in ball gowns and black tie, demanding a four-course banquet with stuffed boar’s head, foie gras and Beluga caviar? A magnum or ten of champagne? Do they think we’re hiring the London Philharmonic to play while they eat? Fatboy Slim to do the disco? Do they expect to see Cirque du Soleil jumping out of giant gold-leaf-edged cakes to gyrate on podiums while dwarves circulate with trays of cocaine? Honestly I’m not Freddie Bloody Mercury. (Sorry Fred, no offence up there, mate. I’m sure they were great parties.)

Clearly the concept of a party in someone’s flat is unknown to the Chinese and they’re intrigued to see what will happen. Perhaps they’re hoping for an orgy. I mean, if there’s nothing to eat – and they don’t drink much really, unless they’re eating or are in a club – what else is there to do?

Well, I’ve got news. They’re getting mulled wine (a concession to the approximate almost-Christmassiness of the date), mince pies if we can work out how to procure such a thing – but breath not to be held on that score – and Pringles. And possibly a few cubes of cheese and pineapple on sticks for a hint of ironic retro-Britishness. Not that anyone except us and Boss will realise we’re being ironic, but still. If we still feel up to teaching them the Gay Gordons - and provided there aren’t fifty of them – we might attempt some dancing. We will drink, and chat. And THAT’S IT.


But you know what? They’re all so damned enthusiastic about everything that I reckon it’ll still be the talk of the town for years to come.