During the war and when he returned to HK in the 1950s, Dad had a Chinese interpreter to help him communicate with his local troops. This afternoon I met with the interpreter’s daughter, Jenny, who met me at the hotel. We did a bit of shopping, took the Star Ferry for a sunset ride to the Island and then went for a wander round Soho.
There followed a very long walk in search of a bus stop, a very short bus ride and then another wait for a taxi to take us to a place dear to Jenny’s heart – a karaoke bar. I had, until that moment, spent a lifetime successfully avoiding amateur singers (except drunk ones, obviously) but it seemed my luck had turned. There were several performers, a couple quite good but one who apparently sang Danny Boy, in English, but sounded more like badly oiled brakes being applied. Jenny sang several songs. I think I’ll stop there.
I pleaded jetlag and sped home on the good old MTR. It was wonderful to meet someone who has such a long connection with our family and I am only sad that the interpreter himself is no longer with us.