I woke up with salt-encrusted sweat stains on my pyjamas. There was no point in going back to sleep. People were already out, loading up bicycles and scooters and embarking on early-morning cleaning rounds.

The park was busy. There was a gathering on a little cobbled square ahead. Sunlight gleamed on a sword. Blood-red fans snapped open in unison. Bodies contorted in slow motion, crouching impossibly low to the ground.

This was not Tai Chi. It was something more ancient, possibly peculiar to this neighbourhood.

A man in a silk uniform waved me over. He smiled and and bowed to an elderly woman in a striped T-shirt. Before I knew what was going on she positioned me in a painfull stance and applied gentle pressure on my shoulders.

Lower. The message was clear. Lower!

The next morning they were gone. The square was packed with people in tracksuit bottoms practicing Tai Chi to gentle music, but the spirit was no longer there. I slunk off home, my aching thigh muscles reminding me that it had not been a dream.