Russe, where tempation got the better of me

Ok, so the purple coat happened. The one with purple sequins round the collar and cuffs, and arms ruched to look like a clipped poodle, and strange tassles in strange places. It has led to many interesting conversations with the Angliiskiye Rebyata (sorry, with the Angliiskimi Rebyatami - must remember to decline everything), with the teachers at the institute, and with Elena, who does not like the coat, and does not understand my love of thyings so dreadful that they are truly spectacular. In the same conversation, I also told her, accidentally, that I live in a small ugly tree (read: village) which is surrounded by cows, and that I like to dress like a punk. She didn't understand either of these statements either. Neither did I, actually. Nick has done worse, he insisted that he lived in a cash machine. The Russkis were mightily confused. I thought that one must have been aided by a 60% beer (yes, you saw) called Samagin, but he promises he didn't touch the stuff. Rosie vowed to her host that she had found a large onion in Krasnoyarsk, where you can get free wireless. Philly ordered, or tried to order, a European bake (evropeiskii pechen) and ended up with what the menu had actually said, which was Jeqwish style liver (evreiskii pechenie). It just happens Philly can't stand liver, and I think you'll agree they are all rather similar words, yes?

Dear old Elena, she has had me texting her "Egyptian husband" in English for her all week, telling him all about myself and how I am coming to Cairo next year. Although her English is not up to texting, she does know enough that she would realise if I put anything slightly more modest or less keen than she had dictated. Her most recent favourite topic of conversation is that I should get myself a Russian boyfriend, even though all men are evil, even if I "don't really love him", just walk up to any "paren" who takes my fancy, bleat at him that I'm Angliiskaya and don't know anything, and hey presto he'll be in my pocket, along with lots of conversation practice, which is, I believe, the main objective. I'm holding off on that one for several reasons. I am beginning to make some progress with spending time with real Russians my age without the Angliiskikh Rebyat. Declension, declension, declension.

The giant vegetables continue (we recently progeressed to Vyacheslav the second, which reminds me that Rosie and I have become The Great and The Seciond, for the sake of ease. I'll leave you to guess which one of us is which) and we currently have about 40 carrots. Carrot curry is on the menu. Speaking of curry, most Russians appear to have no idea what it is, and when I say "Indian cuisine", they look at me as if I'd said that Milton Keynes is a wonderful place to live. They are utterly flabbergasted by the concept of wanting individual spices to put into sepearate dishes, rather than "here is a packet of spice mix which will make every spicy dish you ever cook taste the same". The same is true of herbs. Similar reactions are observed when you ask them where one may purchase "yoghurt without flavouring". Expressions of horror and disgust: for what it's worth, I might as well have uttered blasphemy. Much beetroot has entered our lives, and a cheese and beetroot salad makes a wonderful accompaniment to cabbage and red pepper fried in marmite and honey.

I have had the spelling of my name corrected by a Russian. My name is not even Russian! How dare they?! On the plus side, when the (now very familiar) checkout girl at the local supermarket asked me yet again if I had one of their discount cards, and I once again answered that I did not, she offered me one, and I gladly accepted. I am now the proud owner of a Russian store card, and get a fabulous 3% off every purchase below 5000r (about 100 pounds). Go me.

Only the Russians, I believe, would put a perfectly ordinary dairy cow in a zoo. Enough said.

After we had filled in strange forms asking about our views on teaching methods, but nothing about qualifications or experience (they called them "application forms"), and a strange conversation with a strange woman who only really wanted to know whether or not I had brought my viola to Krasnoyarsk (they called that an "interview"), I have somehow landed myself with a job teaching English to teenagers and adults who pay for private evening classes. I have taken one session so far, and the homework I set them was to go to the Irish Pub (I saw it out of the bus window so I know it exists) and try a pint of Guiness. How long I will manage to keep this job is debatable.

Lucy had the joy of turning 21 in Russia last week. After having planned to visit a sauna (naked), we were taken on a group march with 25 Chinese students and 2 Germans to a rocky place which they called a National Park. Each time we started munching chocolate almonds, they laughed at us and thought we were worn out. The 3 people we bumped into from Bethnal Green (of all places) were more easily convinced that we weren't. Nikolai slept through the amazing curry that I painstakingly slaved over in the evening, and Russian Champagne tastes like baby poo. And smells even worse. Like a rubbish dump.

Nick is in hospital. He is not ill. But he has been there for 4 days already, we have had to take him supplies, he will be arrested if he discharges himself, and they haven't dioagnosed him yet. We reckon the problem is the enormous amount of fatty food his hostess insists on feeding him.

Anna has arrived. Need I say any more? Yes perhaps I do. Her baggage did not arrive, she forgot to bring us baking powder, and she is squatting in Lucy's flat. She has an almost fanatic love of M&S, we're not sure how she's going to manage 4 months (sorry, 6 weeks now) without it. All the Russians think her name is "she" because of the way we all pronounce it (Anna, inistead of Annnnnnnnnnnnna).

We made borshch. It tastes rather sweet. We are having a barbecue at 11am on Saturday. These weird Russkiis... When one of my 30ish year old male students asked another of the same description if he thought I should get married, the answer was "I think Rosy likes butterflies". Make of that what you will.

Tatiana is our favourite Russian ever. She has a cackle like a witch, and a secret baby. And she drew Nick's intestines on the board for us. Followed by a diagram of the female reproductive system. She was amazed we were familar with terms such as "fallopian tubes". We are rather surprised that the Russians are not more familiar with them, as they insist we will all get ovary infections if we sit on the floor.

We think that's probably enough for now. Sincere apologies for the typing errors, I am merely testing your spelling/reading abilities. Peace out.

P.S. How to annoy the Russians - laugh at them when they speak English (but don't be offended when they laugh at your Russian), and if it's Sasha, get him to say "hedgehog". Winner.