Whipped into shape by kneading hands

Just as bamboo bends with the wind so as not to break, it is natural for expatriates in China to change their habits to suit the daily realities of life in their chosen city.

Not wishing to end up with a snapped neck, I forego jogging on the streets of Beijing. Cars, electric bikes, pedicabs all jostle to claim the pedestrian's life. I don't intend to make their job easier by dashing through the streets blindly at a rate of knots.

I have, however, become rather accustomed to taking advantage of the plentiful and, in my locality, completely legitimate massage parlors. Translated literally, the process of having my willowy frame pounded and slapped by an underpaid masseuse is "protecting the health" and thus makes up for my otherwise slothful lifestyle, I feel.

The corn-fed country girls who tend to my knotted muscles are pleasant enough, if a little naive. I was asked recently if the Chinese New Year was a national holiday in England. Unfortunately not.

Free health advice is often dished out during the kneading, mostly praising the benefits of the oil massages. I have been instructed that whatever might ail me, from dry skin in Beijing's summer to chapped lips in winter, a good coating of oil is the panacea I have been dreaming of.

Not all of the free health advice necessarily tallies up, however. One girl told me quite bluntly "You should not get more fat!" Yet the very next time I went, my handler opined that a pot belly would in fact quite suit me.

The other guarantee is that I will supposedly be shanghuo, or suffering from too much internal heat. The theory that I drink too much coffee certainly hits home, as does the theory that acne is likely to strike at any time.

The standard of massages can vary enormously. The plump and rather plain Wang Zhen for instance has hands that work magic on my shoulders. Others prod and scrape the skin like the playground torture I used to know as a "Chinese burn". I could probably look up the origin of the term on Wikipedia but I prefer to imagine it derives from early European travelers' experience with greenhorn oriental masseuses.

The care and attention one receives also varies wildly, which is where asking for a shuxi (familiar) person comes in handy. On a recent cold morning I was ushered into a room of sweltering warmth. Without exaggeration I can say the room was hotter than a Hainan beach in summer. "Are you cold?" asked the girl with concern, already reaching for a blanket.

Another girl who works there saw me as a soft option and planted herself down in a good position to watch TV while rubbing my arm idly. I enjoyed neither the "massage" nor the indifferent period drama.

Blind masseurs are a common sight in China as job opportunities for people with this disability are obviously limited and thus subsidized by the government. I thought I should do my bit for a worthy cause and so laid down on a sheet of impeccably white cloth and waited to see what would happen.

Doctor Li was brought in, a frail-loo

king old man who, as it transpired, had hands that could crack walnuts.

I found it rather embarrassing to be beaten up by such an old fellow and so didn't cry out for him to go easy on me; at least he couldn't see my tears of pain. Though excruciating, the treatment certainly de-knotted my muscles successfully and that night I slept like a log.