I spent the Christmas of 1998 in Wuhan, working as an English teacher. Everyone has heard of this Chinese city now, thanks to coronavirus, but back then the name meant nothing to much of the world. My knowledge was certainly scant when I arrived in February of that year. Nothing could have prepared me for the heat and humidity of a Wuhan summer, and the odour of fermented tofu deep-frying outside the university gates at 7am certainly took a while to get used to. Ten months later, however, I’d got over the culture shock and was feeling very much at home. I’d made some friends, knew my way around and had one Chinese pop song in my karaoke repertoire. Life was good.
But at 25 I’d never spent Christmas away from England, and the realisation that this was going to be very different hit me hard. No carols, no cheesy movies, no decorating the tree and, worst of all, no automatic right to a day off. Christmas Day in China is just another working day. This was a first for me. At home, I’d always worked right up to Christmas Eve and then again on Boxing Day, but never on Christmas itself. It was a holiday – always had been, always would be.
