When young Jonathan asked what job I was leaving him to go and take up, I did my best to explain: "Well.. you know how I correct your homework? And you know how every week there are the same mistakes all over again? Yes? Well, this is what I'll be doing, only for grown ups." Having just finished my first week in said job, I can say that that was a pretty accurate description. Now, instead of working with one Jonathan and making sure he doesn't swear, I work for about 200 Jonathans making sure they don't make equally heinous crimes. Yes, I am the new and only in-house English Editor for a large property agent. Or, as occasionally introduced by my boss, "the new English teacher." Same difference I guess.
The first week went well, I think. I got up at some unnatural (but apparently not illegal) hour, took the ferry with a million other yawning, coffee-clutching suited people and returned each day some twelve hours later by the same route. On my first day, I was happily met by my new boss, other co-workers and shown my new desk in my new - bright, naturally lit! - office overlooking Victoria Harbour (all good so far); introduced to the kinds of English letters I would be reading: dull and incomprehensible (so no fear of giving away trade secrets: I simply don't understand what I am reading); and taken out for lunch. Twice. Very nice. On this same day I was also given the onerous task of writing the new Who's Who of senior management, and the imminent deadline for that; and told that I had arrived just in time to make the Christmas party and Professional 7s corporate event on Sunday, and that I would need a Las Vegas/Moulin Rouge costume for the former and to 'volunteer' to help with the latter. So, the week passed quickly in giving equal attention to both researching my new big bosses and a suitable outfit for the party.
Once I had sourced some fishnets and a corset (thanks largely to H&M's surprisingly slutty line of clothes for this holiday season), the Christmas party/Annual Dinner, hosted in the grand ballroom of one of HK's finest hotels, was set to be a fun affair; and in true Hong Kong style, the fancy dress was amazing, with pirates, decks of cards, tableau vivant, mafia gangsters, etc, etc. There was glitz and ritz and celebrity oozing from the enormous centre stage as awards and prizes were given out throughout the eight course Chinese banquet, served by an army of dedicated waiters, and - the piece de resistance - a talent show in which, of course, Lady Gaga featured heavily. By this time though - and I don't know whether it was the wine or the steady accumulation of early mornings, or both - I was beginning to feel like I was an audience member to some surreal Japanese quiz show. Was it the gold, sparkling jackets and top hats; the giant lottery tombola and substantial cash prizes; the embarrassed/ bemused/ overwhelmed faces of the 'contestants' and winners smiling for the cameras (oh yes, the whole event was being filmed and projected on to four large screens on each wall of ballroom); the fact that all the above was going on in (just) Cantonese by this time, or was my own very English reserve/ ironic detachment/ wry humour bursting through the corsetry? Well, whatever it was, as the show came to an end and gave way to the awkward dancing of a minority and the exodus of the vast majority I knew, with the fourth Gaga song to be played back-to-back that it was time for this little English person to find her bed.
So, shortly after midnight, there I was, very happily settled with a cup of tea and infinitely pleased that I didn't have to get up for work in the morning - but, as it turned out some 6 hours later, not sufficiently mindful to turn off my alarm. (Aiya!) So off it went, and again this morning when I had to get up and haul myself over to Stanley to stand in a gale of English mist and drizzle (perfect for the rugby, but not for 'nesh' old me!) with my other young, keen-to-impress or just hard-done-by colleagues and do my bit for my new parent company with the sincere, not-a-touch-of-English-ironic hope that one day - may be not next year, maybe not even the year after - I too will be rewarded, for all my long hours of hard work and sacrifice, with a substantial cash prize, weighty shining plaque and awkward smiling photo with the CEO.
Or, I could just be English and not bother?
