I spent the Christmas of 1998 in Wuhan, working as an English teacher. Everyone has heard of this Chinese city now, thanks to coronavirus, but back then the name meant nothing to much of the world. My knowledge was certainly scant when I arrived in February of that year. Nothing could have prepared me for the heat and humidity of a Wuhan summer, and the odour of fermented tofu deep-frying outside the university gates at 7am certainly took a while to get used to. Ten months later, however, I’d got…