We arrived at the Zheng Yang Gate, in the southern part of the Square, where there was a window hatch and a queue of people. The sign above said Bags Deposit. Ah, so this guy did get it, unlike his lords and masters so busily overseeing efficient queuing. Fair play to the guy; he took my camera and my ten-renminbi fee, pushed right to the front of the other waiting tourists, insisted to the woman behind the desk that it was urgent, and quickly came back to me with the necessary luggage tag. I was in.

The wily old coot then proved that he could speak at least two words of English, putting his hand out and saying, “Tips? Twenty?” Given that he had made my visit possible, I was happy to oblige and gave him the cash before we walked somewhat more slowly back to the queue. We engaged in some brief Chinese banter – he congratulated me on the London Olympics, which at that time were just starting off – and high-fived me before I rejoined the queue roughly where I had left it (forgive me).