It is fatal, absolutely fatal, to think that you can come to China and 'just pick up X'.

For example, if you buy an outrageously expensive goosedown jacket before you come, then you may well see equivalents being sold at every turn.

But, if you're freezing cold, and arrive hoping to score a jacket here, then rest assured you'll have a bugger of a time doing so.

It's some kind of Murphy's Law.

It would be very, very foolish, therefore, to glibly say to one another, 'Oh, I know we want a copy of Lonely Planet China, but I'm sure we can just pick one up when we're there!'

Much trudging from bookstore to bookstore proved how wrong this little fantasy actually was.

Finally, as I was gazing at a selection of LP titles which included every single country bar China, a bookshop manager took pity on me.

'Not available in Beijing because Lonely Planet politics and Chinese politics do not agree! Not possible to buy!'

OH MY GOD. Blithe assumptions about availability of China guidebooks in China officially in toilet.

Returning to our hostel tired and somewhat dejected, I decide to check this statement with the woman working at the hostel front desk.

'Really? You want Lonely Planet?' she replies, with a sudden gleam in her eye.

Yep, I nod.

'Okay. I will check the house now.'

Uh-huh. That statement makes no sense to me, I'm thinking, but I'll just sit right here. It's not like there's going to be an actual copy at the end of all this rigmarole.

'You not coming? Coming house now?'

Um, okay. But what house?

We leave the hostel, and wander down into a tangle of hutongs. Past men doing leisurely exercises in the harsh afternoon light, and old women sweeping with brooms made from twigs. The tangle of dwellings narrows and narrows 'til we're heading down a small alleyway, and then we stop.

'This is house!'

'Your house?' I ask. Totally confused now.

'Yes,' she says absently, as she opens the cracked wooden door to reveal a tiny, dark room crammed with a massive bed and broken dresser and all manner of stuff. The stuff has silted up on every surface - photographs, books, plates, half-eaten mandarins - it washes over the room like rich pickings brought in by the tide.

Monica is kneeling down by a large wardrobe that takes up about 1/4 of the room. She reaches into its bottom drawer and then pulls out a pristine copy of the most recent Lonely Planet China guide. It's wrapped up like a prime side of beef, in the kind of filmy plastic bag you get from supermarkets.

'From Hong Kong!' she announces with evident satisfaction.

I'm eyeing it so hungrily that there's no way I'll pull off a bargain. But I don't care - I can't wait to rush back to our room to show off the new loot to Andrew. What a score!