A week's lazing with coffees was broken by another trip to Beijing, this one a near exact re-enactment of the week's previous. Again, the approaching indistinct skyline of the capital observed dozily from the passenger seat of a chauffeured vehicle, again, the polite Kiwi accents of the embassy staff whose appointments in Beijing had apparently served no imperative to acquire any Mandarin. Again Guo Mao and Starbucks, the opulent foreign businesspeople and their obsequious hosts, the warm winds and woolly hats of independently modern Chinese local girls.

There's an ice-skating rink in the middle of the shopping complex, and Donna and I stopped a while to watch the graceful attendants displaying their talents to a group of prepubescent American kids with skateboards, who proceeded to make nuisances of themselves by boarding around the perfume counters. Donna was particularly impressed; I was awoken from my mid-evening snooze back at the White House later on by her insistence that we visit the local rink and price her own pair of ice skates.

Donna, Sophie and I wandered along Bin Jiang Dao in the evening air, swimming with gracious couples in light suits. I distanced myself a tad from the other two, lonesomely regarding the smiling faces of young Chinese in pairs, pointing at the soft toy stores with broad smiles and quiet, still black eyes. 

The ice rink was the sole domain of a lone and superbly legged professional who pirouetted invitingly. As Donna fitted her shoes, I sat alone watching the dancer's routines whilst an old Whitney Houston track looped unpleasingly. Sophie stood erect, exchanging clipped comments with the staff as Donna happily pulled her laces. The coloured lights were switched out, and the room became plain again, as did the dancer who slid into a coarse pullover, smiling buckishly with pencilled brows.

I was exhausted without any adequate excuse - I slept another day and sat stuck at the keyboard again staring at the blank page. Donna and Sophie were playing cards at the table once more, and I resolved that it was time to take things into my own company. I politely prepared for an evening walk, informing the girls I'd be some time and would be looking for a bar.

Late night along Jiefang Lu, parallel to the Hai River, was mostly unattended. Old Germanic villas, now restaurants or apartments, coldly edged the tarseal. Karaoke venues held little appeal at this time; I had decided to find a place for a quiet drink, foreigner style. I soon came across an expensive hotel out from which I saw two European men heading for a cab: I correctly assumed a downstream industry would be nearby, catering for foreigner's tastes. Minutes later I was approached by a pair of girls inviting me to visit their bar, and this time, I accepted the offer without hesitation.

Rose Bar caters almost exclusively for foreign men. The waitresses are xiaojies employed to play board games with customers - not to be touched, these girls earn their keep by enticing men to buy them drinks, not otherwise offered any compensation for their time. Their manner must therefore be charming, their English sufficiently practiced to encourage boozed International businessmen to chivalrously buy rounds for the staff.

Fortunately, my mood and the scarcity of cash in my wallet prevented this kind of foolishness, and so I sat over an inexpensive local beer chatting pleasantly with the two hostesses who'd invited me inside. Linda, whose bored, philosophical nature seemed to suggest a submerged dissatisfaction for the work, held the conversation together by remembering what I'd just said - Anna was more wired, challenging me to a Connect-Four playoff, a game at which she was exceedingly well practiced. She was a natural communicator; when the topics ran dry she had a limitless supply of distractions - IQ puzzles, brainteasers, dice games and card tricks.

It was quickly established that I wasn't one of the regular corporate clients, and so the atmosphere relaxed considerably and I indulged in some travel stories, declining further alcohol and instead attempting to learn something of daily life in Tianjin as Anna saw it. She was an accounting student who'd been unsuccessful in finding employment to match her previous position. At 27 years old, she was little more than five feet tall, although with the curves of a model and a fashion sense to match. Her face was almost too oriental, the slender arcs of her eyes were feathers on smooth, ochre skin. The job with Rose was little rewarded with money, but did provide her with an opportunity to speak English on a daily basis without the imperative to provide more intimate services.

It was coming near 1 am, and the bar was due to close. Anna quietly announced an intention to leave early, and invited me to accompany her to a nearby pool hall managed by a friend. Genuinely interested in the diversion, I agreed and soon found myself chatting with her in the back of a taxi as we approached the dispeopled Bin Jiang Dao and the unfortunately monickered 'Dilliards Club'.

We were lead to a private room by her manager-friend with whom I chatted briefly over a beer - the room's central pool table was set up neatly, and Anna and I were left to play. She was a better talker than a pool player; despite this she was able to defeat me without any difficulty. I switched to Sprite and watched her clear the table on her own for a few rounds, before one of the staff came to collect a fee - I handed him 50 yuan and he left us again, explaining that there was noone else there and he wanted to go home. The hall would be open 24 hours, but at this time of the morning it required just one attendant, who snoozed hunched over a desk in the foyer. I went to locate a men's room - Anna led me through a large hall of deserted pool tables which was illuminated by a sole distant bulb - a chalky staircase led to the bathroom downstairs. The entire hallroom was ours without charge; we returned to our private room and locked ourselves inside, relaxing on the plush couches without any further disturbance for the rest of the evening.

Outside, at dawn, the cloud grey apartments and old city walls, the morning sky white and scrubbed cold. We were walking the back streets to the small lot where she'd left her yellow bicycle, the early risers themselves cycling past in great swarms, heads turning towards the immaculately dressed young woman of such small stature, the unshaved foreign face scratchily grinning as she joined them to cycle away.