As I look out over Beijing from my 10th floor balcony, there is barely a cloud in the cobalt blue sky. A gentle, fresh breeze takes the edge off the sun's warm rays. In the distance I can see the mountains, and the Olympic Green stands out like an oasis. It is as nice a day as any I have experienced in the city but it is not always thus.
Does Tony Blair's posturing on the world stage betray his presidential ambitions?
The young bank teller's eyes gazed at me in what I probably optimistically misinterpreted as an imploring manner before switching to the electronic board on my side of the counter.
I broke the unspoken rules of bartering over the weekend but, boy, did I pay a price. It was during my first visit to the capital's biggest jumble sale, Panjiayuan flea market, just off the East Third Ring Road in Chaoyang district.
There are few words more likely to make a Western banqueteer's liver shrink in fear, his nostrils twitch in alarm, his stomach churn at the memory of mornings-after and his taste buds recoil in distress than the first time he is subjected to the Chinese challenge of ganbei with baijiu.
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