Ginger in Her Socks: One Englishman’s Parenting in China

By Ian Mote

I have lived in China for 13 years, and my daughter was born there. This book is made up of my experiences – not just about becoming a parent for the first time, but then about bringing up a child in China. For instance, I have had to deal with traditional medicine treatments that I could not even pronounce, been embarrassed when my daughter at age two spoke more Chinese than I did, and worked out that stairwells are great places for shadow boxing when you find yourself as the only man staying in a maternity centre. Just do not punch a nurse when they walk past you.
This book is about being a Western father adjusting to parenting in Shanghai. It is about negotiating with our carer to actually get to hold my daughter, learning to sing Chinese lullabies using roughly the right Mandarin tones, and wondering if I could rob a bank with an ice cream.
I wish to share parenting and living stories from all over China, through the eyes of one proud, curious, worried, adventurous, shocked, confused, and really quite tired English Dad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669826071

Ian Mote

I have always loved to travel. Right from the time I went around the world as a baby in my parents’ arms, travelling has been in my blood. As I grew older, I started looking at longer-term trips away from home. Aged 18, I took the obligatory gap year, experiencing a life in America which I had only before seen on television or in films. It made me realise that maybe there was more out there in the world to understand, see, and be a part of. I went to Hong Kong for the first time in 1990 and then again in 1995. The 1995 trip also featured my first tentative steps onto mainland Chinese soil. Despite a bad case of food poisoning spoiling my view somewhat, even then I found China fascinating. What a different world from suburban London. In 2002 I moved permanently to Hong Kong and lived there for four frenetic years. That time included regular trips into all different parts of China, and from those trips, these stories started. I had an intermission from China when I moved to Dubai in 2006, but in late 2008 I took the opportunity to return to Asia to live in Shanghai, where I live to this day. This book is about what I have found there. I continue to be on a journey of exploration through one of the most historic, dynamic, and fascinating countries in the world. I hope that my journey will continue for some time, and I thank you for joining me for the story so far.

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Ginger In Her Socks:

One Englishman’s Parenting in China

Ian Mote

Copyright © 2022 by Ian Mote.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/07/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

841166

For Heidi and Keira

For bringing joy to every day

The days are long, but the years are short

Gretchen Rubin

宁为太平犬，不做乱世人

(Better to be a dog in times of tranquillity than a human in times of chaos)

Chinese proverb

Contents

1. Introduction

2. Getting Started

3. Getting Started…Again

4. Heidi

5. Nine Months And Counting

6. The Big Day

7. Sitting In

8. The First Year

Pictures

9. The Ayi Chronicles

10. Spring Festival Shenanigans

11. Second Year Already

12. We Are Not Amused

13. Off You Go

14. Cyan Is The New Black

15. Three is the Lucky Number

Pictures

16. School Days

17. More Spring Festival Shenanigans

18. Out and About

19. Four Candles

20. Lockdown Strikes

21. Heidi Part II

22. Waipo

23. The End of the Beginning

24. Epilogue

Pictures

25. Bibliography

Introduction

I have lived in China since the end of 2008; in some ways, it feels like an age, while in others it is no time at all. Before I came to Shanghai, I had spent four years living in Hong Kong, during which time I was travelling to China regularly. I even visited Hong Kong as a 16-year old back in the final days of the 1980s. For as long as I can remember, Greater China has been a part of my life.

I have experienced a lot during my time in China. Among the highs, I met and married my wife, Heidi; I travelled to every province in Mainland China; and I published my first book, From Chicken Feet To Crystal Baths. Catchy title, eh? That book told of my exploits on my trips as I went around China and the cultural differences I saw between China and the West. It is, of course, most definitely worth your time to read.

Having popped my literary cherry, I have always fancied writing another book, but was not quite sure what my topic should be. In the last few years I have not travelled as much as I used to, and I have now gotten used to many of the cultural differences that once struck me as being notable. 14 years in one place will do that to you. Any further musings would need to be on a different aspect of life in China, picking up on different themes; it does not get more different than becoming a parent for the first time, as my daughter Keira was born at the end of 2016. And so that became my literary focus.

This book is Keira’s story, set against a backdrop of Chinese culture, behaviours, and expectations. Much like the first book, it is again a mixture of highs and lows, fun and disappointment, surprise and recognition, understanding and confusion, here both from a simple parenting perspective and then the Chinese perspective on top. Of course I should stress that every pregnancy is different, and it is far too easy to generalise when in a country of 1.4 billion people, so some people here will have had different experiences; but I simply want to share mine. Neither is necessarily right or wrong, but just different.

Raising your first child is hard enough work under any circumstances, but add in the influence of 5000 years of culture to shape your efforts, and it becomes even harder. I think I am getting the hang of it, although there is always another surprise just around the corner. Anyway, this is our tale, I hope you enjoy it.

Ian Mote

Shanghai, China.

2022

Getting Started

Let’s have a baby.

Oh, ok then, if you really want to. Back in 2015 my wife Heidi and I had reached that stage in our relationship that could either be classified as feeling that our lives were incomplete without having a child to love and protect; or that we needed something else to talk about every day. Either way, it was time to take the next step, to level up and listen for the patter of tiny feet.

Becoming a father. If you had asked me throughout my life, I would always have said yes, I wanted to have kids. Maybe not right at the exact moment that you asked, but eventually. One day. Some time in the future. I always saw myself as a family man, even if I was ready to admit I had little or no idea what I was letting myself in for. My record for holding a baby without them crying was about 30 seconds, not that I was admitting that to Heidi. But here we were; after six years together in Shanghai, it seemed that eventually had now arrived. Heidi too had long wanted to become a parent, again without the right opportunity or circumstance to do so; the time was now for us both, taking the step was something we were both very much in favour of, and away we went.

Of course we tried for a while the traditional method; along the way calendars were marked, charts were consulted, times were set, all to give our chances a boost. On one occasion I left work to go home early because ‘something in my flat needs fixing’; turned out it actually was the heating, as when I got home Heidi had been stuck in a meeting and ended up returning late. I eventually spent my afternoon on my own, and at a loose end did indeed fix the thermostat. Time pressures aside, this plan was fun but ultimately unsuccessful. Nothing happened. We were both conscious of the fact that we were not as young as we used to be, and before very long we decided that we should not allow too much more time to slip away without knowing if we might need a bit more help to get things moving. It seemed a good idea to get checked out, to make sure that everything was indeed as it should be.

For Heidi, this involved being tested with all sorts of prods and pokes, blood tests, scans, and taking medicines and then hormones to give nature a kick-start. This went on in the background while our efforts were ongoing, but still with no joy.

After a while, we had the inevitable conversation where Heidi turned to me and said,

I think you should get checked out as well. Er, ok, I suppose I can do that. This threw me off balance a little, as up until then I had taken a typically male viewpoint that my swimmers would be fine and everything was working the way it was supposed to. Maybe it is a link to our more basic feelings as mammals that we have the primal urge to procreate, and so if either men or women find that if we are not equipped to do so then it can hit you hard. Certainly the thought that the lack of success might be down to me after all started to worry me, and I soon agreed to get checked at least for my own peace of mind as much as to enhance our chances. We had a look and found that a fertility clinic that had been recommended to us turned out to be just down the road from the office of my then banking job. I booked an appointment for 3pm one workday afternoon the following week. I simply scheduled ‘doctor’ in my work office calendar, and come 2.50pm, I slipped out the door of our bank office without telling anyone anything specific about where I was going. I sat with the doctor, explained the situation, and we talked about some possibilities and scenarios and what the different tactics might be. Then, finally, she finished the conversation.

Ok well, if you can just give us a sample now, then we can run some tests and see where we are.

Sorry, now? I was not quite expecting that. But she looked at me expectantly and I realized this was only going one way. I was herded out of the office and accompanied by a nurse into a dedicated room – I am not quite sure what the room’s official name was – where she handed an empty plastic cup.

Do you want to watch any DVDs to help you?

I thanked her for her offer and said that I would be fine on my own. She left and I locked the door behind her, as I looked around. The room was quite comfortable, with a sofa and a television, but I had to wonder how many men had been in here in the same situation before me. I hope it was cleaned regularly. Put a UV-light on it and you might have all sorts of surprises.

I did what I had to do, and when finished, I had a few moments of confusion. Should I wait a while? How long is the right amount of time to be in here? Would the nurses give me a look if I come out too fast? (If you are a woman reading this, you now know what goes through a man’s mind in such a situation. I do aim to be educational). I did not come up with any clear answer to these questions but given that I had to be back at work for a meeting at 4pm, I did not have the luxury of too much time to sit around. When I was done I went out and handed the nurse the cup, which I wrapped up in tissue paper in a worthless effort to hide its contents lest they be judged either too small or too voluminous. I mean how much is enough? I sat and waited for the test results.

After a few minutes break, which was either to allow the scientists to test my sample and come up with an analytical conclusion about my medical state, or just for me to stop dreaming and pay attention to what was going around me again, I was reintroduced to the doctor. Apparently, everything was alright, no significant problems, but I could do with a little bit of a boost just to give us every chance of getting across the line. She prescribed some medication, told me to stay off the beer, and come back once a month for the next three months.

The following month I scheduled another ‘doctor’ meeting at 3pm, wandered up the road, went into the special room, and this time watched the DVD, purely out of curiosity of course. The course of medicine started to take effect, and my sample scores edged up higher every time I went, such that after the third trip, I was given the all-clear. It was a bit of a random experience having to donate samples in the middle of the afternoon, but it beat working.

What were you doing this afternoon?

Banking. Close enough.

In fact, the only problem it seemed to cause me was that when I did get back to the office after my visits, I had to be careful if I attended any meetings in case I felt the urge to fall asleep in them.

We then knew that I was where I needed to be, but even with all the various efforts Heidi was putting in to pull her body up to the target, we were not successful. And it was made clear to us by the doctor that given where we were, it would be in our best interests to fast forward to the next level sooner rather than later.

The next level being In Vitro Fertilisation, IVF. A process where the sperm and the egg are combined outside the body and the fertilised egg is then implanted in the woman at the optimum time to give the best chance of conception. The mother and father of the child still contribute their genes in the usual way, but science provides nature a bit of a leg up. The idea of using IVF was not something I had ever much cause to think about in the past, as my expectation of the whole baby-making set up would be that I would meet someone, get married, put some Prince on the stereo, and nine months later be cuddling a little ball of joy. That it was not going to be that simple was a shock, but Heidi and I were both committed along the route, and if we had to take a bit of a long detour to reach our destination then so be it. Enhancing the natural route was an available opportunity, and neither of us had any qualms about doing what we had to do. If we were lucky enough to have both the time and the money to try and benefit from such a service then we were going to do it. From my side, I inevitably charged in somewhat blindly, knowing that my part would not be much more than having to give another sample in another cup, possibly with some entertaining DVDs to peruse along the way. As is the way with these things, Heidi would have to do the heavy lifting, both figuratively and, if we were successful, then hopefully literally also. But I could give vital moral support, and a sample or two. I was good for those.

Even once we had agreed that we were going to start the process, it raised other, more practical questions. Like, where? And when? The when was simpler to resolve, being pretty much immediately, but the where gave us more cause to think. Of course, it would be good if we could do everything close to home, but was it easy to do so? And how do the local facilities compare to those overseas? Heidi started asking friends who had been through similar experiences, we put out feelers for recommendations and testimonials, and we did some research to see where looked best.

It soon became clear that there were a few main options. We saw some positive feedback about a clinic in Taiwan, we had some links to some operations in China, and there seemed to be a lot of success from people having been to Bangkok. Thailand has a reputation within Asia of having a very good medical industry anyway – high quality, but relatively cheap compared with many other places – and some more liberal Thai fertility laws meant that it had become a centre for the baby business. We had a look, made some calls, decided this was the place, and booked our flights.

The Bangkok clinic was broadly in line with my expectations, not that my prior expectations were that clear anyway. We had an initial appointment scheduled with the doctor, which we attended armed with charts and reports from all the tests and work we had done at home. I was surprised to see how busy the clinic was; it seemed that their reputation had spread far and wide, and whilst their technical prowess was apparently very high, it also had something of a production line feel to it.

The doctor was sympathetic to our cause and assured us that despite our age, we still stood a good chance of having a baby, if we followed through on their program and did everything that we were told, including eating the right foods, taking the right medicines, and paying the right bills, i.e. theirs.

We left encouraged, with a swift return pencilled in to undergo the treatment, which left us with a couple of days free to spend in Bangkok. This was an interesting opportunity, as although we had been to Bangkok a few times before, our trips were broadly split between outright tourist trips we took together – going around the temples, the Royal Palace, the markets – and solo efforts, which for me were either stag weekends or football tours that involved going around…well let’s not get into that here. This time we were going to take the chance to do something different.

We were staying at a hotel called the Renaissance as it was just around the corner from the clinic. This found us in the centre of town, next to a famous shrine called the Erawan, which was handily placed with a couple of decent, informal restaurants next to it that we frequented most lunchtimes. What to do first? Well, firstly we went shopping. Shanghai, whilst a great city, has become more and more expensive over the years. When I am not the most enthusiastic shopper at the best of times, I can easily see red when average clothes – as, unfortunately, most seem to be – are priced exorbitantly. I do not remember the last time I bought any clothes in a shop in Shanghai (China’s ubiquitous online shopping behemoth Taobao is another story…imagine Amazon on steroids where it costs pennies for delivery. I use it to buy my breakfast cereal.) Bangkok, however, has both a much wider range of international shops and lower costs, enabling me to get stuck in, even to Heidi’s surprise. Good job we bought a big case.

Shopping done, what next? I had a look on TripAdvisor with the hope of seeing something highly rated that I had not already been to. This did not take me long, as number one on the list was…any guesses? No, not any of the temples, or the Royal Palace, or any of the markets. It was an Escape Room, one of those games where you are locked in a room full of clues, which you must decipher within one hour to free yourself and make your escape.

And, to be fair, I would have given it five stars. When you arrive, you have the option of wearing Sherlock Holmes-alike deerstalkers and capes – a bit unnecessary – but then you are locked into the room, and off you go. It took us a few minutes to get into the swing of the ideas, trying to hunt around the room for hidden clues and/or secret pieces of information, but once we started to see the way each step was set up and the way of thinking is required to pass through, we accelerated. We had to ask for one hint from the staff, receiving a two-minute penalty but used it to edge towards escape. The clock ticked down towards the 58-minute marker that would have meant failure…but within barely a minute left to go, we cracked the last clue, established the combination that opened the lock that barred the door, and stepped out. Sweet freedom! Ok well not really, but we had won, and were suitably enthused by the whole thing, that after a quick break we had another go, and tried another room. This time 56 minutes and we were out, still enthused, and I went off intending to add to the positive reviews on TripAdvisor.

Inevitably, when spending time in a major city full of great food, you will seek out some of the better restaurants to go to. We had a couple of excellent Thai meals, and then on the third night, looking to switch it up a bit, we tried something different.

We went along to Dine in the Dark, where, and the clue is in the name, you eat in pitch-black darkness. The idea is to heighten your other senses when not using your sight, as you cannot see what you are eating; in fact, there is no menu, and the food is a surprise, boosting your reliance on your sense of taste. All the service staff in the restaurant are blind, which gives job opportunities to the sightless, and the restaurant donates part of its proceeds to local blindness charities.

The restaurant sits within the Sheraton hotel, where we were given a briefing before being led through a thick curtain into a completely dark room. The waiter guided us around the tables to our seats, and we fumbled for our knives and forks as the first course was put in front of us. It took time to adjust to our surroundings – no, your eyes do not adjust to the dark because there’s no light at all – and we started to embrace the experience. The second course came around, and I gave up my knife and fork and just ended up picking the food up with my hands as a far more practical eating method. This time we were not so sure what we were having; the meat was rich and thick, not a chicken or beef, and it felt strange to be eating something that we could neither see nor work out what it was.

As we were mulling this over, we heard some voices behind us as people came in to sit at a nearby table. Normally this would not be worthy of note, but in a dark restaurant, sound is everything, and you cannot help but hear every word that anyone else is saying. Particularly when, as was the case here, they had been drinking and so were speaking at high volume.

I guess if you have been out for a few beers and are looking for something fun to do, someone can say, ‘let’s go eat in the dark,’ and it seems like a good idea. Trouble is, it is not. Not for you, and not for the other people around you, to the point that after a few minutes of them shouting around, not least one guy who seemed to be the ringleader in volume for both words shouted and drinks drunk, Heidi turned towards them (not that they could see) and asked them to keep the noise down.

This, unfortunately, was not well received by our fellow diners, not least Loud Man, who, instead of possibly apologizing and promising to try a bit harder to tone it down, respecting his fellow diners, went in the other direction and came back more with a ‘who do you think you are, why don’t you mind your own business’ style of reply, which did not go down well at all. And prompted Heidi to tell them exactly what she thought of them and their behaviour.

This raised the temperature even further, and in normal circumstances could have seen people squaring up to each other or some threatening body language. But of course, we were in a place where body language was irrelevant, and we were safe from anyone throwing a punch on the basis it would only have a one in a hundred chance of hitting its target. I am not the lightest on my feet, but I am sure even I could stay out of range of a drunk bloke in the pitch dark, even if it did conversely increase the chances of my impaling myself on a bread knife on another table.

With this stand-off going nowhere, we decided to leave, and with one more fruity comment lobbed in the general direction of the loud table, we were ushered out back into the comfort of the light. It was a shame that the experience in the dark was tarnished by the other guests, but then also ironic that the dark also controlled the situation and stopped it from getting worse. After all, it was not like the other diners might recognize us in a bar another night and try and restart the argument.

Escape rooms and feisty blind dining completed, before long we were back in the doctor’s surgery for the main event. This was it: a live embryo was going to be implanted in my wife that hopefully would lead to us being parents in just a matter of months. No turning back now, just sitting back, holding tight, and hoping for the best. Heidi should rest for a couple of days after the procedure, then we go home and wait for the good news.

It did not work. We did not get pregnant. Heidi went through the process, we waited, we crossed our fingers, Heidi did the test, and it was unsuccessful. No joy. Negative. Nil points. So what do we do now? We do it again. But better.

Over the next few months, we worked up for a second round, with Heidi taking a daily cocktail of drugs that supposedly stimulated her ovaries, and as far as I could tell definitely stimulated her hormones as we entered mood swings-a-go-go. Still, it seems that as the woman goes through the physical battering that the whole process entails – and that is before she gets pregnant and the real fun begins – it is the man’s lot to be the human piñata in order to sponge away all of the issues and allow the woman to concentrate on being fertile. Which, with a combination of deep breathing (both of us), meditation (both of us), and quite a lot of beer (both of…ok no, just me), led us still in one piece back to Bangkok for round two.

This time we were not taking any chances either. Long discussions with the doctor had recommended to us the highest chances of success, obviously such as all the prior drugs, but also then a long period of rest and recuperation following the process. This time, rather than staying in the Renaissance, we hired an apartment nearby, not just for us to stay in over the transfer time, but for Heidi to recuperate in afterwards. In order to give the transfer the best chance of success, Heidi was recommended to stay in bed for a full two weeks after the process, with as little exercise or exertion as possible. I hung around for a few days, managing to convince my boss that it was essential that I go into the Bangkok office for a couple of days to touch base with some Thai clients, but I could only stretch it out so long and finally had to return to Shanghai. Heidi hired a local Thai Ayi (Ayi is the Chinese name for a maid/nanny) to come in and cook for her, and pretty much spent the rest of the time flat out, confined to bed, just willing the egg transfer to take hold and start growing.

I think Heidi found this process quite frustrating, and I can’t say that I blame her. If it was me then maybe the first day blasting my way through DVD box sets might be fun, but the rot would set in quickly, and I would be going crazy by the end of it. To her credit Heidi did not go crazy, but I could tell it was getting harder and harder every day to sit back and just get by on hope alone.

Eventually she was allowed out of the apartment, and came back to Shanghai. When back, she went to see the local doctor to get an update on her condition and see if all was well. We then had to wait a few more days, before returning to the doctor yet again, this time for the all-important pregnancy test. Heidi let me know the time of the appointment, which made me nervous; not just because of the importance of the test result, but also that it fell exactly at the time that I had to make a very important strategy presentation to our department head, which would go a long way towards not only our prospects in the following year, but also in terms of my own career outlook and the level of support I would receive going forward. What I did not want was to be halfway through my most important presentation for some time, and then receive either a text saying that yes, Heidi was pregnant, or that no she was not. Whilst obviously one response was far more desirable than the other, either message would throw me off my stride in terms of talking to my boss. And yet I did not want to turn my phone off either.

I steeled myself and went into the presentation, and laid out my strategy for the following year. As it went on I started to be less conscious of my phone, partly as no messages came in either good or bad, and partly because the department head was giving me a harder and harder time about my proposals. The meeting finished with no text message, but a lot of follow-up work to do from a business discussion that in all honesty did not go particularly well; despite having to that point worked for the same institution for 19 years since joining in London straight from university, and having spent that period working across four separate locations in three different global regions, my career in the bank eventually came to an end just over a year later. And I feel that the seeds of my departure were sown at that presentation, as the Head seemed to lose faith in me from there, and after that never really gave me the time of day again. The facts that what he was asking for was unrealistic, and also that after I left the team went downhill compared to growing in the year that I was running it, are neither here nor there. I throw them out into the world now just, you know, for your information; I have so moved on.

Anyway no messages came in, until around half an hour later, when Heidi called me. I grabbed my phone, ran out of the office, and stood in the stairwell. Whichever way this was going to go, I wanted a bit of privacy.

Hi, how are you?

I’m not pregnant.

All the time invested, all the drugs Heidi took, all the money we spent, all the hope used up. I know that IVF success rates are never even close to 100%, but we had thrown everything we could at this to give us as much of a leg up as possible, and it had not worked. Heidi was in tears on the phone, and I was not far behind, but I promised Heidi we would keep trying, that I believed in her, and that we were not done yet. Take a break, recuperate, regroup, and go again. What else could we do? If I could not do much to help beforehand, I could at least provide some support here and do my own grieving later, although as I trudged back to my desk putting this on top of my experience in the meeting, it had been a hell of a day. Or maybe even a day of hell.

Getting Started…Again

When the dust had settled on the previous round, we called the Bangkok doctor and asked what had happened, and if he could see any reason why we had not been successful. He then admitted that the fertilised egg that they implanted was maybe not as strong as it could have been, and that if we were to go again, they would make sure to only implant the strongest egg to give it the best chance of survival. This caused us mixed emotions. On one hand we were feeling better that there might have been an excuse by not using the absolutely best opportunity for success; but on the other hand we were frustrated, as to why we had been through all of that effort and the clinic had not given us the best chance in the first place. Heidi and I agreed that we were going to keep going, but we looked at other options.

We were also looking elsewhere because our opinion of Thailand, which we previously had held in high esteem, changed in August 2015. We were sitting at home watching television, when CNN reported a bomb blast, in Bangkok. We watched with interest that soon turned to horror as we saw that it was none other than the Erawan Shrine that had been targeted; the place that we had walked past a hundred times had been destroyed, as had the restaurants where we sat every day. If we had been there on that day, we would likely have been hit. Thailand is usually such a peaceful, friendly place, and this was a sickening blow to its reputation, and to our views on it as a place not just to take a child, but to create one. Even though since it appears that it was not a Thai national that was responsible (police arrested a Turkish passport-holder, with the underlying theory that it was a retaliation attack for Thailand handing back Uyghur terrorist suspects back to China, rather than allowing them asylum in Turkey), but even so this only compounded our decision that if luck was to be with us, we needed to find somewhere else to go.

After some asking around and some further research, we came down to two new locations. And to give us the best shot, we went with both at the same time. Plan A was to go a clinic in Taipei, Taiwan, which was very highly regarded in the region, and had been successful for an old work colleague of Heidi’s. Plan B was to go in China, with a Shanghai contact. The Taiwan clinic could see us, but only a little time down the line, so we started setting up in China first just in case.

When agreeing to this option, I had not realized that in China some of the fertility-enhancement practices were not actually officially sanctioned, and so were offered as a sort of ‘grey’ service by some fertility doctors, seemingly on their day off. This was not a highly decorated and qualified clinic that we turned up to, but some fairly fly-by-night facilities that would schedule us pretty much when no-one else was looking.

The first part of the process was to make the donation, which fell to me, leaving Heidi in the unusual position of spectator for this round. After playing football one Saturday afternoon (strictly no beer after) I was directed to go straight to a hotel on the outskirts of Shanghai, where I would meet Heidi and the medical representatives. When I reached the hotel, it was a basic Travelodge-type place, and, we were soon to find, had no record of any booking, meaning that we were then immediately shipped off to a second hotel. This time they had heard of us, and Heidi and I were ushered up to a room, where I was instructed to give my sample. Once I had filled the cup, we were due to go back to the hospital.

This seemed a strange set up to me. Why could we not go to the hospital and do it there? Why was I being asked to do this in some cheap hotel room? And what happened to the comfy chair and the rack of DVDs to watch? I was not impressed, but Heidi urged me to go ahead, so I …went ahead. Afterwards, we came back down to the hotel’s lobby to find the guy from the hospital had gone. When we found him on the phone, he sent someone else to pick us and the sample up and take us to the hospital. But this guy was currently stuck in traffic.

This was seeming more and more amateurish by the minute, particularly when I pointed out a fact which everyone seemed completely oblivious to, namely that sperm can apparently only live for 20 minutes outside the body. If the bloke with the car did not hurry up, all the efforts would be wasted. Not that I suppose giving a sample was the most onerous thing I had ever had to do – just the onanist - but we were trying to make progress and it did not seem like we were managing to.

The car driver finally pulled up, we jumped in, and he sped off to the hospital, which thankfully was close. He ran in with the cup, and took it wherever it was that it needed to go. As we waited, we were introduced to the doctor handling our case, who could only give us a couple of minutes of encouragement before returning to his day job.

I have lived in China for over a decade now, and, for the most part, am used to it. What seemed strange when I first arrived now feels normal. Huge banquet meals? Had plenty. Eating parts of an animal I did not even know existed? Yes I’ll do that. Walking in the road because it is quieter than the pavement? Guilty. But sometimes I become involved in an aspect of life that I have not tried before, and catch myself having that feeling of surprise, curiosity, and ‘how did I end up here?’ that comes whenever things get done in a completely different way. As I stood there, a Londoner in a Shanghai hospital car park, waving goodbye to my sperm sample donated in a cheap suburban hotel room a few minutes before, which officially-speaking I was not allowed to tell anyone that I had done anyway, I felt that this turned out to be one of those moments.

That put Plan B in motion. But we still had our heart on Plan A, and going to a proper clinic to be seen by a proper doctor and given a proper procedure with proper DVDs in a proper medical facility, not a second-rate IBIS. We booked our flights and travelled to Taiwan for an initial meet and greet, to understand the requirements and get to know the doctor. Unfortunately, we went on the first day of one of China’s week-long public holidays, which meant that the whole of the country was on the move the same day. We negotiated our way through a packed airport for the most expensive one-hour flight I have ever taken.

The clinic was in a suburb of Taipei called Hsinchu, literally ‘new area’. I have not looked it up, but with a name like that I can only imagine that Hsinchu was part of some clever town planning to alleviate pressure on