Letters

To the Good People at the Bank of China,

It was very considerate of you to abolish the queue system in favour of a ticket system in your banks. However, abolishing the queue does not automatically abolish the waiting time. Do you have any idea how demoralising it is to take a ticket, scan the counters, and realise that your ticket number is #298, a whole fifty people behind the ticket #248 that is currently being served?

This, in fact, is almost as bad as watching the only three counters open for business serving numbers 246, 247 and 248 for a grand total of 25 consecutive minutes- what could possible take that long? Are they all applying for home loans at the counter windows? Interviewing for jobs as the general manager? WHAT???

I know exactly how long it took you to serve these three people, because you graciously provide us with a giant red digital clock, to mark the minutes and hours of our lives we waste in your hallowed halls. Thank you for putting a number to the mind-numbing blackout of boredom.

On another note, thank you for providing us with seats. Not many seats, but if we wait like hawks, each time someone is served the remaining bulk of customers still waiting can rush to the one space that has opened up- like a maniacal game of adult musical chairs. However, in all of China, could you not find something a little softer than those metal bus shelter benches? Have you ever tried sitting on one of those for an hour and 15 minutes, as I did yesterday? I know they must be cheaper than anything with actual upholstery, but I suggest you wait an hour in your own queue before you get back to me on this issue.

Yours in Brain (and Butt)- Numbing Boredom,

Louise.

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To the Driver of the White Van, parked outside the Hualian Supermarket last Wednesday,

I have a crazy suggestion: perhaps it would be a good idea to actually look behind you before you slam your van into reverse.

And, correct me if I am wrong, but if you are also deaf (as well as apparently blind), you should probably not be driving. I assume you are deaf as you did not hear me madly beeping the horn of my scooter you reversed towards me. However, even if you are deaf and blind, you should still have felt the vibrations from me slamming my fist on your back window in a vain attempt to get you to stop.

I understand that with all the crazy beeping in this city, it is hard to know what is being directed at you, and what is not relevant. However, here's a tip: when someone is bashing frantically at your back windshield, you might want to assume they are trying to communicate with you, and perhaps even hit the breaks.

As it was, thank you for generously stopping after you had knocked me and my scooter sprawling across the road. However, out of politeness' sake, when you do finally notice that you have hit another human being with your death-trap of a van, it is common courtesy to check that they themselves are ok, and not fatally injured, before you check your van for scratches.

Yours Limpingly,

Louise
(aka the foreigner you ran over on Tuesday)

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To my Immune System,

Ok, I give up. I don't know what it is you want, but I will do anything. I realise now that you have gone on strike. The first two colds I contracted in the last month I chalked up to coincidence. But three colds in a month can be nothing less than a message. It's enough. I'm ready to crack. I hereby give in to your demands, whatever they may be.

I know I ask a lot of you- forcing you to work in not just one petri dish of bacteria otherwise known as a "school", but in five of them, but please bear with me. The more schools I work in, the more vitamin C I can supply you with. If you just get back to work, I may even be able to splurge on some echinacea... now doesn't that sound nice?

If you will come off strike I promise will send away the SCAB Strikebreakers, otherwise known as massive doses of cold and flu medications, currently doing your work.

However if we cannot come to an agreement soon, I am afraid I will have to bring in the big guns- and I know how much you hate those antibiotics.

Yours Snivelingly,

Louise