Saturday 5th May

Once The Old Man and I finally returned to his fancy Shanghai apartments early Saturday morn – following a flight about which the less written the better – it was, more than it ever had been before, ‘nap time’.

Once somewhat refreshed and restored, we ventured out to grab a spot of lunch at Nene’s, a quite ludicrously expensive French Concession pasta joint, whose prices seem to have been set as some kind of elaborate, Italian ‘dare’. We navigated the menu much like a Cambodian might wander across an unfenced field, picking our steps with infinite care, ever-fearful that our next decision could be our very last.

After a quick pit-stop at the flat, I bid farewell to The Old Man, who (nominally) ‘had work to do’ (but who actually wanted to lie prone and supine in front of indeterminate televised sports, pretending he was earning an honest crust). For me, it was ‘out’ out – once again meeting up with Portlandia to head to interestingly named spots such as ‘B&B On Fire’ and ‘Barbarian’.

As these wretched places refused point-blank to accept my good, British credit cards, Portlandia offered to foot the bill. This, obviously, was cause for some concern, as I had previously learned back at ‘The Hop Project’ that if a Shanghai lass pays for the evening, she clearly considers you but two steps up from pond scum and/or low-grade algae. However, reflecting that New England and Shanghai are not massively similar, be it in culture or in climate, I attempted to put such upsetting thoughts to the back of my mind.

Following this slightly uncomfortable bout of internal self-flagellation, the American faithful reconvened upon us for another Cantina night – this time for a rather unexpected-cum-downright odd ‘Cinco de Mayo’ party, replete with many a novelty hat and questionable drinks deal, yet despite there not being a solitary Mexican in sight.

This being noted, however, as internationally-based, inexpertly delivered, but exceptionally ‘good craic’ evenings go, it did sum up the Shanghai expat nightlife scene very much to a tee – and proved a fitting final night for a trip which, no matter which way one cuts it, must be considered ‘bloody great fun’ from soup to nuts.

Sunday 6th May

What left was there to do, but to pack up ones bags, say one’s fond goodbyes then catch the unspeakably swift Maglev over to the airport? ‘Work’, that fell, alien concept, called to me from the rapidly incoming Monday, and it was time, alas, to drag myself back to Albion.

I shook The Old Man firmly by the hand and we wished each other well, in firm, steady and unmistakably English tones. It had been one hell of a jaunt, and I had – budget, overbooked flights aside – reveled in every moment of it. Each morning, noon or evening had, I reflected, as I handed the airport fella my proud burgundy passport and demanded that he, ‘Got me home and got me there sharpish’, flown by more speedily than the last; be they long, adventure-filled Borneo days, or, indeed, sleepless, fun-packed Shanghai nights. Not, in conclusion my friends, too bad a fortnight at all.