Please stand firm, hold the handrail

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.

When someone excitedly asks me, 'How’s China?!' I should surely respond, 'OMG incredible amazing, so crazy and fun!'  Right? I think that's what it says in the backpacker handbook, along with wearing your hair in bunches and finding your spirit animal at the bottom of a bong. But I ain't a backpacker, and it's not all fun. Some days, city life here is like city life anywhere and I am indeed having a ball. Some days, city life here is logic-defeating, and facepalming, and like I'm sleepwalking through some smoggy, twilight world of gobbed-on streets and shit beer. Guess which days I'm going to tell you about.

There are the days when our landlord refuses to explain why it is "just better" for him to keep the cupboard with the electricity meter in it locked, meaning we don't know until the power shuts off whether it needs topping up. And then have to wait six or seven hours with a warming fridge for a chain of people to relay the message that we'd like to be able to turn the lights on, thanks.

There are ones when I inadvertently race another foreigner in the tube station because we're apparently the only people wanting to walk any quicker than an amble. Or when, as you finally make it to the platform, everyone suddenly remembers their sense of urgency and all try to squeeze through the train doors at once, regardless of anyone trying to leave the carriage.

The days when all eyes follow your every move, hands flick through the clothes you're waiting to purchase, someone starts poking your thumbnail on the tube (true story) or you think you're just having a walk down the street, but you're being grabbed and forcibly manhandled 180 to face a camera. Or you're shadowed round a shop by the owner who has somehow reached the conclusion that if you don't want the pair of shoes you made the mistake of showing an interest in, you must be in the market for a lamp, or a keyring, or a wig, or some dogfood.

The days, which are all the days, that my skin and hair is in terrible condition.

There are a lot of days when other foreigners in the city won't return your polite smile like they're afraid you want to be friends or you're taking away their special foreigner status by being there. Alright cunty bollocks, just a nod would be fine, I'm not inviting you round for tea.

There are plenty, plenty of days when the constantly overlapping weird American-Chinese recorded announcement imploring "Please stand firm, hold the handrail" on the tube manages to irritate me so much within a 30-second escalator ride that I belligerently wave my hands in the air and wobble like a jelly all the way down.

So, have I failed at China because admitting it's not amazing all the time is failing? Because I chose to write about these silly things and not the masses of good people and food and experiences and the joyful fact that this year, I don't have to spend October to February worrying about covering the EMAs and the Brits? Because I tend to answer 'Yeah, Beijing is fine' instead of having some kind of hysterical happiness fit? Am I indeed full of it, and my punishment is learning Chinese? Or is it just easier to write about the annoying days because they’re funnier? Dunno. Answers on a postcard that will never get here because we don't get post, please.