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Since my last story, I have been swamped by mixed messages which have led me to a state of Chinese confusion. The twists and turns of this tale are many, but if you concentrate it will, hopefully, be much easier to follow than it was for me.

Last month I received a check as payment for recording some identification announcements at Beijing's new English language radio station 774 AM. When the check arrived at the office of my apartment, I had to sign for receiving it -- a perfectly normal procedure.

I planned to take the check on my next visit to the bank and deposit it in my savings account -- another perfectly normal procedure in the West. But my language inability guarantees nothing is as simple as it seems.

A few days ago, an attendant in my apartment block at the Friendship Hotel asked me to sign for a form which he then handed to me. While I do not like putting my signature to just any piece of paper, this seemed necessary. He could not explain in English what it was about, but waved me towards the same nearby office where I signed for that check three weeks earlier.

On the way out I met one of my neighbors, an American woman who is very fluent in Chinese. I showed her the form to see if she could read the Chinese characters and give me a clue what it was all about.

"Oh, you have some money to collect," she explained with a wide smile, adding, "lucky you." When I asked her where I should go to receive it, she looked again and told me to take it to the hotel post office.

Waving goodbye, I wondered who else had sent me money, assuming it may be an early Christmas present from a relative. But when I showed the form to the woman behind the post office counter, there was no financial reward. Instead, she pointed westward and said something in Chinese indicating I must go to another post office.

Before leaving the hotel compound, I called in to the office of the biggest apartment building, knowing the attendants there can speak some English. Perhaps they could shed some light on this looming paper chase.

The woman on duty studied the form then told me I needed to go to a post office about half an hour's walk along the main road west of the hotel.

Puzzled as to why I should have to travel to another post office so far away, I followed her instructions and always the optimist, decided to take the opportunity of getting some exercise at the same time. Rather than just walking along the flat footpath, I stepped out briskly, running up all the pedestrian overpasses two steps at a time, and completing the journey in just 20 minutes. It does not require deep psychoanalysis to understand how the thought of receiving money can generate physical as well as mental enthusiasm.

Compared with the normally quiet atmosphere of the hotel post office, this branch of China Post was buzzing with noise and people. I joined a short queue, and when it came to my turn, I explained to the young attendant I could speak only a little Chinese. She smiled, took the form and gave it to an older woman who seemed to be her supervisor.

Studying the details, the supervisor made the first of three phone calls, and while I had no idea what she was saying, the tone of her voice during the first conversation indicated my enquiry was not going to lead to the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

She put down the receiver, then dialed another number. I heard her say "Youyi Binguan" (Friendship Hotel), and a thought bubble with dollar signs appeared over my head. But there was no sign of a red envelope as she placed the handset down again.

Her third and final call was the longest, and now her voice seemed buoyant enough to make me think I was not going to leave empty-handed after all. I was right. She wrote some figures on the form which she returned to me, then proceeded to explain why, not in English, but in rapid Chinese. I should have interrupted her with a "Qing wen" (Excuse me) followed by "Wo bu mingbai ni shuo shenmo" (I do not understand what you are saying), but she was in full flight, barely stopping for breath.

When she paused for a second, my mistake was to say "oh" which gave her the clue that I did indeed understand what she was saying. I simply gave in and let her continue. To make sure she was offering some hope, I pointed to the figures 10.29 she had written, and asked "Youyi Binguan?" (Friendship Hotel). She responded affirmatively, so I thanked her and left.

The paper chase had now become what we Westerners call, a wild goose chase. Not only was I going around in circles and getting nowhere -- this was more like being in a maze from which I could not exit.

At least I was getting more exercise. Walking briskly and climbing the steps of the overpasses again, I returned to the hotel apartment reception room to show the rewritten form to the woman who had directed me to the post office an hour earlier. She was both surprised and apologetic for having sent me so far without a satisfactory result.

I pointed to the figures 10.29 and explained how the supervisor had indicated I should take the form back to the hotel post office where my journey had started almost two hours earlier.

Asking me to sit down, which was just as well because I now felt quite weary, she called the hotel's post office to try to sort things out once and for all.

After a brief conversation, she suggested the numbers 10.29 might be the time I would receive the money. Presumably it would arrive at my apartment the next morning -- at precisely 10.29 am. But the look on her face was not reassuring, as if she too was uncertain.

I thanked her, and on the way back, again passed the American woman who had been positive the form was my passport to a pot of gold. "Did you get the money?" she called out. "Not yet," I replied. "It will be delivered tomorrow."

The next day came and went, and as I write, more than a week of 10.29 ams have passed with no sign of that money.

But wait a moment, I think I can solve this mystery and end the madness. I still have the check I received from the radio station. Maybe it has a serial number which will match the numbers on this form I was given. Excuse me while I take a quick look.

I am back at my keyboard. Sure enough, the figures are the same. I think I have been on a mission impossible.

When I picked up the check three weeks ago, it was mid-morning -- possibly 10.29 am. Yes, that must have been the time I collected it and the woman at the busy post office was merely confirming it and explaining that if I had not picked it up, someone else certainly had.

Dear reader, this is not the end of the tale. It is about to take another, incredible twist, so stay close.

Today I went to the bank to deposit that check. But the teller would not accept it. Why? Was it fake? She tried to explain but could not find the English words. Calling for help, one of her colleagues responded with two words so familiar, I listened in disbelief: "Post office."

I walked out smiling. It finally dawned on me. This was no check -- it was a money order, payable only at a post office.

Why had I been waved on by the hotel post office in the first place? They must have been trying to explain they could not help if I did not have the actual money order. But now I would take it there and simply get the cash.

Riches were still beyond my grasp. The cashier explained I needed to produce my passport. I did not have it on me, so I returned to my apartment for what I hoped would be the exit to the maze in which I had become trapped.

The tale has been almost straightened out. After some clarification of a discrepancy in the spelling of my name on the money order compared with my passport, I had to write my signature in the "received" box in Chinese -- a task difficult for me but happily performed.

After carefully counting the 100 yuan bills twice, the cashier gave me the money, and the final act in this comedy of errors was over.

Some questions remain unanswered, such as why did I have to sign two separate forms weeks apart for the same remittance? I may never know, but as my watch ticks over at 10.29 am each day, I am reminded of one certainty: Money never comes to those who sit and wait. After all the confusion, I think Confucius would agree.