A friend, who remains a good friend despite his apparent
insistence on delivering painful observations, once told me over a pint that I
was someone who always seemed to have loads in the pipeline, but nothing ever
came to fruition. A breezy way of telling me I was full of it. It came at a
time when I was trying to get out of retail and into journalism, and I assume I
was telling him about a couple of opportunities that had frustratingly fizzled
into nothing. Shortly after our exchange, I got my foot in the door and never
looked back. I came good, I guess.
Now, sitting on a news desk in Beijing while unfamiliar
characters scroll on the screens around me and contemplating the potentially
staggering thought that perhaps I've been using the squat toilets the wrong way
round for three months, I'm wondering if his appraisal of me was right.
I thought that by now I would have learnt enough Chinese to
get by. I thought I'd be painting and sketching more, possibly doing some
exercise, writing regularly. Well fine, none of us ever thought I'd do any
exercise, but in general, I might not be the kind of person I thought I was -
or the person I told everyone I would be. You know the one, the person who does
constructive things in her spare time. The person who learns a new language.
The person who dumps everything to switch countries and has a total blast, man.
Oh lord, I best just say it: I THINK I'VE FAILED AT MOVING TO CHINA.
