You light the fuse, and stand back. There is an eardrum-ripping blast that pulverises the casing, and fires a charge about sixty feet in the air. Surrounding small children are knocked to the ground. A few seconds later the second charge explodes in a similar detonation. The small children, who have got back to their feet, are promptly knocked down again. The er ti jiao is very popular. It costs about 3 yuan – 30p or 50 cents (negotiable).

Street vendors sell fireworks the size of a washing machine. [by David Ferguson]

I asked my wife if there are any regulations at all controlling who can buy what fireworks. "None," she replied. "Anybody can buy anything they want." I imagined for a moment what it would be like if things like these could be bought on the streets of Britain. The thought appalled me.

The first winter I spent here, we hastened to the market to buy the biggest firework I could carry. We fixed on one about the size of a small washing machine, and my wife haggled the price down to about twenty quid. With our booty on my shoulders, I staggered off in search of a taxi, and we made our way to my in-laws. They live in an industrial area on the outskirts of the city, and the local children don't get to see a lot of the fireworks in the centre. We made great merry with my prize, which fired off a couple of dozen charges that would not have disgraced the Edinburgh Festival.

Chinese New Year's Day in Jilin is extraordinary. From dawn until dusk, then all through the night until dawn again, there is never a moment when there is not the sound of fireworks or firecrackers exploding somewhere within earshot.