It seems my drunken self impressed the Russians and they have declared the desire to do it again (without the fruit cognac, said I). It would appear that under the influence of inebriating liquids I was not honest, as I feared, but instead I donned my beer-goggles and saw Russia and my boss (who had supplied said liquids) as the most splendid creations ever, uh, created. So I am safe comrades and relations between Russia and Britain continue to flourish (we'll ignore that thing I saw in the news about Cold War prison camps).

In other news in this here Siberian town, it's been dry for two days running: that means no snow no mud, a reason to celebrate if ever there was one. I watched some Russian films, one was a Soviet era comedy about a man who has diamonds in his broken arm plaster cast, and the other was Night Watch, a modern film about vampires or something (I was confused).

With only 12, yes 12 count them, days to go before I return to the mother land, or is that where I am now...well before I return to Britain I feel I must soak up as much culture as I can possibly squeeze into my brain and suitcase to bring back to you delightful people in bowler hats holding umbrellas (for that is what a Brit looks like to be sure). Or maybe you'd all just like some водка!