Life in a Beijing hutong

It is the eight large cabbages lined up against the wall outside, which grab my attention first. ‘To last us the winter,’ Yuan Yuan said, smiling proudly.

But there is so much more to take in. Here, in the tiniest of courtyards, three faded red front doors battle for space with an ancient bicycle, its basket half full of crisp autumnal leaves, coal briquettes stacked in four-storey towers, and a pair of creased trousers hanging down, the legs grown stiff in the cold.

I had been pensive in Tiananmen Square; looking for meaning in all the grey, empty space. Light relief arrived in the form of two teenage girls waving their cameras at me excitedly. I presumed they wanted a photograph with the huge Mao Zedong portrait, just like everybody else, but it seems that Chairman Mao wasn’t the only celebrity in town. ‘No, they want a photo taken with you!’ a mystery voice chipped in.

The voice belonged to Yuan Yuan. She looked like an intellectual; baggy, olive green trousers, oversized black jacket and a check scarf. ‘Would you like to see my home in the hutongs?’ she said in impeccable English, her round glasses shifting slightly on her flushed pink cheeks as she smiled.

I hesitated having been accosted three times already today. ‘You would be doing me a favour,’ she encouraged. ‘I am training to be a guide.’ My own private tour through the back alleyways of Beijing – how could I refuse?

Yuan Yuan opened the small red door to her home. Inside, there were just two rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom. Dampness hung in the air and the wallpaper deserted the walls. It was sparse - just a double bed with a pale green bedspread, a simple wooden table, two cheap folding chairs and a fridge.

Thirty-two years old, married to an antiques dealer and mother of twin girls, Yuan Yuan looked lost when she told me her daughters lived with her parents outside the city. ‘They don’t even call me mama any more,’ she said sadly.

I told her I was on a career break and my partner was ten years younger. Yuan Yuan had obviously never heard of toy-boys as she laughed out loud. ‘How funny!’ she said. ‘My husband is ten years older than me!’

‘I’ll show you his antiques,’ she said, ever the trainee tour-guide, and she opened the fridge door. Intrigued, I peered inside. There was no food in there. Instead, the fridge was packed full of small ornamental antiques. ‘So, what do you eat?’ I asked.

‘I told you,’ she said. ‘We have the cabbages.’