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For once, words failed me. A microphone had been thrust into my hand, and I was expected to at least talk, if not sing the praises of my new bride. The small detail that I don't speak any Chinese seemed to elude the gentleman who was badgering me, and probably still would do so, if Ellen hadn't rescued me from his grasp. I'm proud of the fact that I don't speak Mandarin, and it will take a lot of effort to convince me that I should. I've already spent the past two years teaching Ellen an enormous amount of English, and we're very, very happy. I'm no longer worried by whatever someone says to me, as long as Ellen deems that it's not worth the effort to translate. And as I stood on the small stage, clutching Ellen's hand, I unleashed all the Chinese I could think of: "Xie xie! Gan Bei! Xing Fu Mei Man!" (Thank you! Bottoms up! Happy for all!) Which worked a treat. Ellen and I spent the rest of the wedding touring the tables and pretending to drink the awful concoctions that were thrust into our hands. At the first table, it seemed to be a mixture of bai jiu, tea, red wine and Coke, and after that, it only got worse. Looking into the cup, I was told that this was par for the course, and I shouldn't worry. Or imbibe. After that, it all became something of a blur - between faux toasts and mock bows, I was becoming exhausted. | 
