Chapter One

And so the intrepid writer morphs again. Rather like Dr Who or that bloke out of Quantum Leap. From the steaming Tropics to the fierce winter of the fantastic city of Moscow.

The first impression is that it's not as cold as I expected and there's no snow. No problem, the next day it snows and I am congratulated by my colleagues for bringing the snow with me.

Something is not right on the way from the airport to my apartment. Can't put my finger on it. The roads are jampacked, Moscow traffic is as dense as I was told to expect – but what's wrong? I know. All this traffic and not one car horn blaring. Lagos, Islamabad, Dacca, Rabat it's not. It's dark a lot of the time too.

For anyone who's lived in the tropics and experienced the trauma of going from icy air conditioning to 100% humidity – instant perspiration attack. Well, here you go from sub zero outside to sauna conditions inside. And the air is so dry, I feel my skin dessicating. Yes, I know I'm a wuss, no one else complains this much.

My first foray to the supermarket and I notice an awful lot of smoked fish and smoked meat and pickles. Traditional cold weather fare to get you through the winter I remind myself. Excellent selection of breads. I try some interesting looking salami type meat and hard Russian cheese that you could probably make cricket bats from. Note to Alastair Cook - you've tried everything else, what about cheesy bats? Armed with the shopping, I arrive at the checkout and right behind me is a chap with one item who makes a gesture which I interpret as “can I go before you as I've only got one item?” Of course my man. He stumbles past me and I notice his face looks like he was recently on the losing end of a bare knuckle fight or he has face planted on the pavement once or twice. His one item is a bottle of vodka and his breath (as he passes) indicates it's not the first of the day. He takes a long time to pay because he has to search his pockets for every bit of change, all the while rabbiting away to me - presumably apologising for taking so long. Disapproving stares are levelled at him from the other shoppers. I have to tell him I don't understand when he asks me something (probably for some dosh to help him pay for his booze) Anyway his face lights up and he says loudly to me “Ah, me Rooshyan alchoholic!” I smile diplomatically but my fellow shoppers are not amused. He must have found enough money because he trots off with his purchase. No stereotyping now.

I am now learning pavement etiquette or how to win in the war of the walkers. When it snows, there is usually one narrow strip on the pavement – usually on the road side of centre – where everyone tries to walk. If you walk close to the buildings, you are in danger of being covered in melting snow off the rooves or worse, skewered in the head by a falling icicle. I recall the advice about sitting under coconut trees in the Tropics. I go to some dangerous places. Then on the side of the pavement nearest the road is all the snow, slush and ice in piles so no one wants to walk there either. So you always have people coming straight at you. Who moves first? I have worked out a strategy – a wussy strategy naturally. I wear a hood and heavy boots so I can always move to either side.

But to make me feel better, I manage to kick a pigeon. RSPCA please read on. Now, everyone tries to do that in London, don't they? The thing is, the flea ridden, mangy specimens in London are so streetwise they always manage to get out of the way. Not so, this pigeonski. I just hang my foot out as usual and connect (to my surprise) with it's feathery rear end. Now when I say “kick”, I don't Jonny Wilkinson it over the nearest minaret, it's just a little tap. I expect its little pigeon toes are quite cold and it can't move very quickly. And it looks a lot more presentable than its London cousins. I won't kick any more, promise.

I am out looking for a place which has wifi (and beer) as my internet at home doesn't work. I chance upon a hostelry which calls itself “Molly Gwynn's”. I think my rudimentary grasp of the Russian alphabet has failed me. No, I go inside and it is definitely Molly Gwynn's. It sells the black nectar and one or two other Irish beers so there is an Irish connection – but Gwynn? And for some reason the waitresses are wearing tiny tartan skirts that you might have difficulty making a scarf out of. But they've got wifi. Now look at this picture.

Would you adam and eve it. What are the chances of finding my favourite local beer in Kent here in Moscow – and advertised in Russian too. I'll have a pint of lager please.

On the way home, I drop in to a produkti (a kind of mini market/cornershop) I buy a couple of things and then, just as I'm leaving, I spy some fresh bread which looks like cheesy topped flatbread in the display cabinet. Mmmmmm, I'll have one of those please. The guy behind the counter points at a handwritten sign without lifting his head. What's that I wonder. I try again, he looks at me, annoyed, and says something which doesn't sound like “can I help you, sir” A fellow shopper spots my confusion and says with a smile. “He says they are closed and will open in 20 minutes”. So half the shop is open and half the shop is closed even though the breads and cakes are out there on display. I diplomatically call him an arse under my breath and leave.

2 days later, I return to said emporium. It's closed again. I keep calling to the “customer service agent” behind the counter who is doing such a good job of ignoring me, I wonder if I'm there. Philosophically speaking, if everyone ignores your presence, are you actually there? Answers on a postcard (what's that?) to Emeritus Professor of Philosophy and Bullshit, James McGee – somewhere in Sussex. Making hand gestures to a non existent watch, I ask when they will deign to get off their whitehall farces and open up. 17 o clock is the reply. As it's 1845, I think they mean 7 o clock. Given that my Rooshyan is rubbish, it's only fair not to correct their poor command of English. Sure enough, 7 oclock – 19 o clock, Boris – the handwritten sign is taken down and they're open for business. Or are they? I'm bored with this story now, aren't you? I got meself a cooked chicken and a cheesy bread in the end. Lovely.

By hell, it's cold this morning. 14 under, apparently. Have I ever been in such cold conditions? Sober. Skiing doesn't count.

Good evening I say to the brass мииркот who is holding his gloved hands, soccer defensive wall style, over his parts. He looks worried