Beijing is obsessed with saving face in front of visitors. And in the run-up to the Olympics, that means, even down the backstreets, that garbage must vanish. Behind the concrete monstrosities lining the main roads, tiny warrens of ancient courtyard homes have eluded the building boom. But even here, the finger of bureaucratic interference is now making a mark.

So the question I had to ask myself this week was: what happened to the garbage? Collecting rubbish down narrow lanes barely wide enough for a car - let alone a rubbish lorry - is not easy. And residents can't just stroll to the end of the street and empty their chicken bones, cabbage leaves and uneaten noodles into a large communal bin. They just doesn't exist.

The answer is to take the eggshells and ashes and toss them out on a corner. But not just any corner. These are designated, and everyone knows which one. By morning the pile is two to three feet high. Every couple of hours, the district government rubbish collector pedals by on his tricycle with a capacious metal bin. With a screeching of brakes - no one bothers with bicycle oil in Beijing - he pulls up, wields his shovel and the mess disappears for a while.

It's a system that's worked well for decades, perhaps even for centuries. It's not free, however. Once a year the neighbourhood committee knocks on doors and requests 27 yuan (£2) from each household. I once suggested that they provide a basket for the rubbish - as much for reasons of aesthetics as of hygiene. The committee members just stared. No basket.

But all that has changed because of the Olympics. The alleys - hutongs - have undergone a garbage revolution. Wheelie bins have appeared and the tricycles have been replaced by zippy electric carts. The whole transformation comes with instructions. Neighbourhood busybodies have been handing out Olympic handbooks to residents. Don't throw rubbish in the gutter. I wonder how the local tailor, whose habit is to toss his leftover noodles on to a sewerage grate, will adapt. No skateboards, rollerskates or anything that glides. No sitting, hanging out or frolicking in car or bicycle lanes. Does this mean the end of one of the great sights of a Beijing summer, middle-aged men sitting in the middle of the road on fold-up stools around a folding table, playing cards with their singlets rolled fetchingly over their bellies? Then there's a ban on hanging anything unsightly outside windows or on balconies. The demise of the washing line with its pyjamas and capacious underpants is upon us.

One thing is certain. As soon as the Olympics are over, the wheelie bins will be purloined and the card players will reappear. The Chinese are proud of their 5,000 years of history and old habits die hard.

Cute but cursed?

Wheelie bins may not yet be ubiquitous, but the Fuwa are everywhere. These five cute Olympic mascots are inescapable - from cartoons broadcast on every domestic flight, to the pages of those Olympic handbooks handed out to Beijing's 15 million residents.

But all is not well with the Fuwa - or “Olympic Friendlies” as they were also known until the masses turned against the name, because it sounded too much like “friendless”. Now, among the several hundred million Chinese who use the Internet, there is talk of the Curse of the Fuwas. Fuwa means “lucky baby”, and their names, Beibei, Jingjing, Huanhuan, Yingying and Nini, run together, mean “Beijing welcomes you”.

But take the first of the five - Beibei is a bright blue fish, who has come to symbolise the catastrophic floods that have devastated southern China. Jingjing is a panda, symbol of the earthquake-shattered Sichuan province and now more endangered than ever.

Huanhuan, the living fire, symbolises the Olympic torch that ran into trouble all over the world, while Yingying is the Tibetan antelope - and everyone knows about the unrest in Tibet. Which leaves Nini, seemingly a harmless fish. But internet users have decided that it resembles a kite and the kite comes from Shandong province where dozens died in a train crash in April.

The Chinese have an almost insatiable appetite for superstition, and the internet police are attempting to sweep this debate out of Chinese cyberspace.

A mug's game

It always surprises me when a visitor asks if the ill-lit, tree-lined alley that I live on is dangerous at night. In Beijing? Muggings are virtually non-existent, and it's hard to think of anywhere that feels threatening. But with the Olympics imminent, officials are taking no chances. So travelling on the Underground is now akin to catching an aircraft. Well over a million passengers a day must go through security machines before pushing their way aboard a crowded train. With a bottle of water or green tea in your bag, you will be pulled aside and required to take a sip. Long delays result. This is one Olympic change we all hope will prove only temporary.

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