A Hero Town and A Hero's Town.

'Zhenya's got no friends because he smells!' sang Richard.

Telling your ten-year-old son that you'll pay him every time you smoke is a bad way to try and quit. It's an expensive way to tackle a New Year's resolution and Richard's Machiavellian spawn, Zhenya, had been taking advantage with eagle eyes and conspiratorial glances.

'Papa's got no money because he smokes!' came the warbled response. KO.

* * * *

A great crotch-grabbing, potential child-bothering, backwards-sliding, plastic-faced, tune-creating prophet once said, 'Don't Stop Till You Get Enough'. I have been travelling out of Moscow for the last three weekends. I'm tired now, but content. Three weeks ago was Pereslavl-Zalesky. Two weeks ago was Sergiev Posad. And last weekend was Tula and Yasnaya Polyana.

It was Sunday morning, about 9 o'clock, and I was sat on a train trying to pry open my gluey eyelids. Dmitry and his girlfriend Sonya sat, arms locked round each other, smiling adoringly. Another couple faced them, Marina and Vanya. Marina was Dmitry's friend. A quiet, intelligent and purely pretty girl who was nervous of talking at first but opened up as the day went on. She sat, arms in lap, next to her boyfriend, the dashing Vanya. He was a classical pianist, with floppy brown hair and eccentric clothes. The last two disciples on the pilgrimage were Fyodor, Vanya's cheeky, little brother and a French actress, whose name escapes me, who was visiting and staying with Marina in order to spend time getting to know the theatre scene in Moscow.

The small town of Sergiev Posad was a scrambled array of nondescript buildings around the station, overly snowed-up lanes lined with colourful wooden houses, and the main sight -

The Trinity Lavra of St. Sergius. It shouldered into view, a jumble of coloured domes atop towers and cathedrals and churches and all surrounded by a large white wall. Inside, past the blessed water well where we drank and past the fields of pigeons tended to by a little babushka with seed, was striking. Some old order of monks had unzipped a rainbow and tossed its remains over the place; chalk-white towers topped with sky-blue, gold-speckled cupolas; a turquoise bell-tower; a little red, white, orange and gold church lurking next to one covered with yellow and ochre squares.

Bearded monks trotted in and out of buildings while women covered their heads and men cleared theirs. A little monastery bakery sat preparing cakes and teas. Snow dropped from the steel-grey sky and I looked around, took photos, and tried to stamp warm my frozen toes. The important, 15th century Orthodox stronghold had caught my attention. It was brief but worth it.

* * * *

And so my latest excursion.

'Jesus ****king Christ!'

I apologise for my language but the 2.5hour trip to Tula was pretty hair-raising at times. We were bundled into a marshrutka - a share-taxi minibus - with about 10 other Russians and were bumping and sliding around the roads over potholes and around ice-banks without seatbelts. I often found myself clutching the chair in front of me.

We stayed in a rented flat, with the same group as in Pereslavl-Zalesky, but this time Dmitry, a different one, and Julio joined us, while Alvaro was at home ill. The weekend shaped itself into 5 stages:

1. Tula-tourism

2. Dinner and party

3. 'The only good club in Tula'

4. World's most hideous hangover and biscuits

5. Yasnaya Polyana and Tolstoyan reverence

ONE

Tula is a large city 120 miles South of Moscow and with a population of around half a million and seemingly built up and out from the central 'Prospect Lenina' road. It is in the Russian record books for having the country's oldest armament factory, the museum of which was housed inside the Tula kremlin. A statue of Lenin stood overlooking a square on the other side of which sat the red-walled fortress and a black-domed, brick church. The kremlin itself, set back behind the Tula Samovar museum, was a minimalistic but noble affair. Red bricks and open space. Inside were only two things: the Uspenskiy Cathedral and the salmon-pink Ephiphany Cathedral. The rest was all snow and wall.

TWO

After their meat-based dinner at a 'Bierhaus' the 13 tourists clogged up a small supermarket by a wall of vodka and bought supplies for the party: vodka, beer, champagne, wine, honey-liquor, crisps, ham, cheese, gherkins, and breakfast food. Dima invited his girlfriend and two others so in total the vecherinka was a busy one. Gone were the bad vibes from the restaurant where they tried, but failed, to charge us for a plate of meat we didn't order, and in were the happy vibes. Music 'blared' out of my mobile phone and the good times, as they say, rolled.

THREE

All comfortably sozzled we walked to the 'only good club in Tula'. It was loud, very large, almost completely lit blue, and full of absurdly attractive girls. The only downside was the music, which was abysmal. An irritating infusion of club/techno and Hip Hop. Sometime around the 4:30 mark we got bored and left. Some of our contingent took taxis while the more adventurous part elected to walk. It took over 40minutes. I was walking with Miguel and Manuel and, to be honest, what tipsy walk home through wintry Russia would be complete without snowball fights, sub-zero wrestling and mucking about on a children's climbing frame. All this fun had to be carried out under the strict instruction not to lose track of where we were. After all, we were walking back through a town we'd been in for only a few hours.

FOUR

The following day was pain incarnate. All the evil done by all the bastards of history was melted down into a big pot of nastiness and poured into my head. Some internal tribe was banging a drum against my temple. I rarely get hangovers. I know when to stop drinking, and the Saturday party was no different. However, the problem was in the mixing. Some vile cocktail in my stomach that didn't let me off in the morning and just got worse throughout the day. Most of our gang left for Moscow on Sunday around midday. I was left with Fernando and Julio and Dima, who kindly offered to be our chauffeur.

First stop was a Tulsky pryaniki shop/bakery. The city is famed for its gingerbread cakes. Brown slabs of sweetness usually with a jam or condensed milk filling. A little old lady manned the cashier in the tiny room. The walls were covered in treats.

'They bake them fresh, that's why I brought you here' said Dima. I bought one in the shape of a cat whilst Fernando opted for a gun.

Then back into the car and back into my personal hell. I cursed myself, much to the mirth of the others, as we swung, slid, revved and bumped over the town's roads.

'Tula is in the bottom 10 Russian cities for road quality' said Dima

'Perfect for me then...' I groaned, holding my head and drinking water.

FIVE

Yasnaya Polyana was Tolstoy's home and now museum and burial ground. It was his 'inaccessible literary stronghold'. It sat, in white woods, about 12km southwest of Tula. Magically, as soon as we left the car and ventured over the threshold the evil grip that was consuming me lifted. I felt good. The house was large, wooden and white. Cats played around it. Inside was old and felt almost spiritual. Everything preserved as it was. Scores of women were inside, at every corner, making sure no rules were broken. Thousands of books and hundreds of portraits and photos were the only details in an otherwise fairly sparse house.

'Fern, that's the actual seat where Tolstoy wrote Anna Karenina and War and Peace' I whispered to Fernando

'Fern, that's the actual bed where the great Russian writer slept'. He smiled.

'Fern, that' the actual -'

'Are you going to this for everything we see Luke, even the mirror?'

'Yes'

Outside were more wooden houses and then endless, peaceful woods. One path lead us into a silent zone. At the end, overlooking a small ravine was his grave. Simple and unattended. A coffin shaped mound of snow and earth. There he was. Tolstoy. The greatest Russian writer.

It's apparent curative powers and its utter tranquillity when compared to Tula and Moscow made Yasnaya Polyana a wonderful end to an absurd weekend. With the lights out on the marshrutka and only a few, fuzzy villages to remind us of civilization, the 2.5 hours back to Moscow passed without occurrence.

'Moscow, which is located under the cold sky'

Act I - New Yearman cometh

A sparkler was fizzing at my arm, it burned a little. I shouted and laughed as mine exploded into life and flicked about its liquid flashes. The little bengalskiye ogoni, Bengal Fires, were passed around the room and shimmered and buzzed as 2011 was ushered in.

'Quick, the tradition!' shouted Natalie and Zlata.

In the 10 seconds before the clock struck midnight we wrote a wish onto a piece of paper, set fire to it, drowned it in champagne and drank. Then, quick as we could, a grape was shoved into the mouth. Pop! Crackle! More flaming sparklers. Health and safety nightmare. It was marvellous.

The free bar and buffet at the room we were in - not a club, just a room, with mirrors, a pregnant iTunes DJ and excitable bodies - offered champagne and all manner of spirits for as long as necessary to anyone who wanted it. Most people brought something with them. There was a large table overladen with food; cakes, chocolates, plov (a Tajik meat and rice dish), meats, cheeses, salads, vol-au-vents, and fruit. Passersby, optimists, stuffers, grazers, and people with the munchies attacked it with tongues and chompers for hours but it never emptied.

At three o'clock one of the organisers, reading my little 'Luke England' label dragged me over to the table and gave me yet another sparkler. At the strike of the computer clock alcohol and cheers heralded, 'Greenwich New Year! S Noyim Godom!', and I felt a tiny, soporific twinge of homesickness.

A man dressed as Santa Claus started to hand out presents - everyone had to bring one. One by one the Russians went up to receive a gift. Before they got it they had to either recite a poem or sing something. The microphone was a little fuzzy and was all but outmatched by the crowds and hum of music. I wasn't going up. I wasn't going to make a tit out of myself.

'Allons enfants de la Patrie,

Le jour de gloire est arrivee!

Contre nous de la tyrannie,

L'etentard sanglant est leve...'

Shouts and cheers from the crowd. La Marseillaise.

I finished my wine and cracked my neck. Like balls I was going to be upstaging by a Frenchman.

My friend Valentina said a piece into the mike and then introduced me. I rattled off a couple of lines of God Save The Queen, which raised some knowing titters from those who could hear, and then I thanked them and wished them all happiness in English.

We danced and whirligigged for hours. Louise, a British teacher, draconianally disallowed any of us to stand still. 'BLOODY DANCE!' she would yell at us in 'Essex' if we went off to the side to talk. I was granted a brief respite as I made friends with a couple of Spanish people and drunkenly praised their country like a sozzled hagiographer meeting some acolytes of a saint.

At 5:45 I spent a content 20minutes on the metro then flopped into my room way before the sun would even think about waking up.

Happy New Year.

Act II - Jan 2nd, the second coming

'Let's buy champagne and go and re-celebrate New Year on top of a building'

Dmitry was always brimming with energy.

His friend Alisa (or 'Bringer of Marmite'), her friend Katya, Dmitry and I bundled off through the Mayakovskaya area in search of a shop. We decided against clambering up an icy fire escape ladder on the side of a block of flats and instead pressed on to the 24-hour retailer. Some near-catastrophic slips around the ice-sculptured hustle and bustle of the frozen Patriashiye Prudi - all covered with skaters and families - and three bottles of bubble later and we found ourselves in a courtyard by a flat drinking to the new year...again, and eating bread and chocolate. Pop. Cheers!

The temperatures were hovering around zero and nobody was in a rush to go home. We bought more champagne and changed location to a small, snowy park surrounded by classy flats. it was utterly forgotten. We buried the bottles in the snow, a natural fridge. Dmitry and Alisa whispered together, conspiring to play matchmaker between me and Katya, a button-nose, cute, blonde girl with a wide, glowing smile.

Around 3 o'clock we walked the girls home. It was not close in the slightest but Dmitry was adamant that we accompany them. I strolled arm in arm all the way back with Katya about 20 metres behind the other two. Dmitry and I then decided against taking a taxi home and walked instead. It took us over two hours to get back to my house as we voyaged past lit-up skyscrapers; frozen parks and their ice-slides; grand white-dappled theatres; spectral churches; still trees; quiet roads; and vast, shining icicles. Sobered up but on the verge of collapse I all but died in my bed at around 5:30.

* * * *

Another weekend we all went sledding in white Kolomenskoye. Small armies of children rocketed down the slopes on plastic trays, crafted sledges and tarpaulin sheets. Parents pushed them down gleefully, sometimes joining in. This was no Nanny State. Dmitry and I went off-piste and tried our hand at some freestyle, more extreme sledding. We hurtled through bushes, down unproven hillsides, and landed in mattresses of snow that would sink us up to our waists. Dmitry's girlfriend, Sonia, was game but Katya was too scared to throw herself down the steeps and instead waited patiently, taking photos of our childishness. Frozen and wet we all spent about two hours sitting and talking in a Subway. A classy end to a classy day.

I'm still seeing Katya.

Act III - Weekend away, the free times

'Come on, Liza, guys, come on!'

We scurried over, stamped our little receipt tickets and bundled onto our rickety and dirty old bus just in time. It was 10 o'clock in the morning and the first contingent of our group was off to Pereslavl-Zalessky, a little town in Russia's Golden Ring, about 120km north-east of Moscow. This selection of ancient towns, all brimming with monasteries and churches and cathedrals, were very important in the establishment of the Russian Orthodox Church. They are often called 'open air museums' because all the loveliness and grandeur and art is laid out, free, in front of you. Pereslavl-Zalessky ('Pereslavl, which is located behind the woods') was a prime example.

It it comfortably nestled in the Yaroslavl region on the shores of the massive Pleschevo Lake and has a smattering of pristine religious buildings dotted evenly through it. We caught the little local number 1 bus into the town, bought food for the evening, dropped our bags off at our hired dacha and sat in a small cafe, eating lunch until the Spanish arrived an hour later.

'Hola chicos!' shouted Fernando as the small Iberian rabble - all in their Arctic-wear - scrambled out of the same bus we had caught in the morning. There was no time for niceties. With the map our 'landlord' had given us, I lead us up the road to the first sight, the Goritsky Monastery - a colourful and grand walled complex of churches and trees that commanded a view over the whole town and lake. The sun, mid-afternoon, was already setting. For a moment we gawped at the beauty of the place and then pushed on.

I then forced whoever wanted - I inherited the title 'fuhrer' from Zlata who was pleased by my pro-activity - to trek with me down to the lake. There were a few whines about the cold but I puffed out my chest.

'Those who want to go back can. You can take the map if you like. I know where I am. But I'm going to the lake!'

We tramped through deep snow until we met a gate so we had to then choose another direction. The Spanish boys pushed each other in the white, dogs ran along the roads and the coloured houses were starting to go mute as we quickly lost daylight.

'Luke, how much longer??'

'Just down here'

The light had gone. The few street lamps there were caught specks of snow-ice and made them glow as they fell. Dogs were barking as we passed the silent houses. At the end of the darkness suddenly there was a promenade, with sombre lamp posts and coloured lights strung between them. Beyond that was the ghostly expanse of the lake. I traipsed down the jetty.

'Luke, what are you doing? That's dangerous!'

'You can see tracks', I pointed fuhrerishly, 'people have been skating on it'

Seeing I hadn't fallen through the ice everyone came down and enjoyed it. This wasn't just some frozen city pond, this was a full-blown, wild lake. And it was frozen and it was ours.

* * * *

Back at the house I prepared the shashlik, kebab meat, outside on the BBQ with Ivan - the vodka-loving priest who was the owner and builder of the rented house - and Zlata. I drank beer and turned the dead flesh as it spat and sizzled. Miguel came out and we started to talk about samogon, Russian moonshine - good stuff according to our man of the cloth. The rest sorted out the table and prepared salads and bread. We ate, we drank and we toasted the stariy noviy god, old new year - 14th January according to the old Julian calendar.

Five hours after it was initially ignited and stoked, the house's banya was ready for us. I went in immediately, as did Val. Apparently it's hottest at the start, before the fire, and then hot rocks, that steam the water, cool down. I stripped down to my swimming trunks, donned the brown smurf hat (to protect me from swooning in the heat), went in and sat up on the top deck. Within seconds every part of me was leaking sweat. Laura, the group's resident American, then joined us. After 10 minutes or so Val instructed us as to the Russian tradition. Steeling ourselves we ran out into the -10 winter night and covered ourselves with snow. Fronts, legs, backs and faces. Then, before the chill numbed and hurt, we ran back into the sauna to repeat the process. We splashed more some water onto the hot rocks. It fizzed and sent a new wave of moist, hot steam into the little wooden room.

Some Spaniards joined us just as the beating began. Using a venik, a leafy bundle of oak twigs, we lashed each other on the back, front and legs. It is used to 'improve circulation, intensify skin capillary activity and improve metabolism'. It was nice in a fragrant, S&M, 'who's your banya daddy' kind of way. After a few more forays into, and out of, the snow, we called it a day. I have never felt so relaxed in my life. At around midnight I bid my leave and conked out.

The following day we just had time to visit the Troitse-Danilov monastery; a chalk white and heavily snowed over monastic complex that was magically serene. Snow fell, but, in that Russian way, like glitter. Cats padded around. Old ladies and bearded, robed priests shuffled from building to building. The only colour was the painted rainbow splashes on the inside of the cathedral. All the walls were covered in pastel colours; icons, images of angels and saints, all surrounded by sky blue. -13 degrees, it was a bewitching and cold end to a most wonderful weekend away. As we sat around slurping borscht and waiting for the bus we vowed to return when the snow and ice melted.

* * * *

Just leaves me to say a belated Happy New Year and wish you all the best for 2011; new decade and all that!

The Atheist's Guide to Christmas

The bags hovered almost motionless in the air, turning fluidly. Her heels, trailing lines of powdered snow, flicked up and joined the shopping in the space in front of her. Her lipsticked mouth emitted a shrill screech and then she landed with a dull thud on her back. A blonde lady in white furs trotted over in her heels and looked into the well-being of the fallen maiden. The victim muttered nonchalantly and accepted an arm up. They giggled. I sniggered and smiled. The tumbler picked up her bags of expensive clothing and walked away as if nothing had happened.

The ice had come to Moscow. People slipped and skidded and glided around the streets while icicles dripped menacingly from branches.

Then the snow arrived. Days of fluffy white falling from the sky. Due to the perpetual minus numbers the snow rarely melts. Near the roads it dirties and produces what essentially resembles chocolate ice cream. Away from the roads it either stays virgin or just gets shifted around by the footfalls of people and dogs; never melting.

In England the snow is wet. You walk around outside and you get wet feet and trousers. Here you walk around and get covered in snow, but it might as well be flour. It clings to you. But outside you are a walking bauble of minus figures. It brushes off like cold dandruff. Only by the roads do you find the 'slyakat', slush. Some underpasses, warmed by the rumbling of cars overhead and the constant stream of stomping boots, are muddy and wet. I hoik up my trousers like some Victorian damsel and gingerly step-stone the drier sections.

Then the snow combines with the ice. Snow falls on ice. Snow becomes ice and forms a dense pack layer onto which more snow falls. Yet to buy appropriate footwear, my day-to-day strolls have become more exciting. The positive aspect is that now my thighs are stronger and my balance is exceptional. A negative aspect is that I am more paranoid of imminent banana skin style falls.

To go into every detail of the last few weeks would be at once boring and lengthy so I'll just feed it to you in a snapshot paragraph:

a falconer on the metro casually holding two birds on his arm to the disinterest of the Russians; a metro train full of art instead of chairs; my housemate Richard playing guitar with his band (Zheka and the Flying Nuns) in the posh Bar Strelka; taking part in a 'bodyshot' with two barmaids in the Coyote Ugly Bar; receiving a 300 rouble (£6) fine in said bar for breaking a glass; hosting a little chilled out house party at my flat where the Spaniards and Russians got much drunker and sillier than I did; had a deep metaphysical conversation with my Orthodox student about the existence of God; skidding and sliding about on the frozen ponds near my flat at 5 o'clock in the morning; admiring the decorations and Christmas pomp in every cafe, company, kiosk and shop in a country that doesn't really have Christmas; smiling at the people ice skating on Red Square; looking for 'Russian' presents for people that aren't bottles of vodka or Matrioshka dolls; spending a day showing round a lovely English girl, Marina, who had just finished her stint in Voronezh; revisiting my favourite sights in Moscow now bathed in snow; finding somewhere to play badminton and, finally, managing to avoid the airport chaos and get home in time for Christmas!

* * * *

'Ooh, isn't that clever! I never thought I'd be able to do this. To talk to her all the way over there in Canada, while I'm sat here. It's amazing. Hello Kath!'

Grandma peered further into the computer. My cousin turned to me,

'This would make a great advert for Skype'

As the matriarchs stumbled and squawked through the technological wonder of Skype, the rest of the family Darracott drank and ate and made merry. I have been full, stomachly speaking, for the last three days. Presents have been opened, alcohol has been drunk, turkeys have been scoffed, vegetable patches have been dominated and wrapping paper has been obliterated. Christmas has come and is here. It doesn't quite have the same zing as last year but this may been due to the fact that Moscow was very festive and white before I left and I am now holidaying in a country that is also rather festive and white. Madrid was far less festive and was dry and colourful with ice blue skies.

I am currently wallowing in that strange post-Xmas limbo. Half nothing to do, half really busy. I have piles of books from Santa Claus waiting to be read - my gaze turns to last year's still waiting selection - alongside small troves of chocolates, nibbles, scents and miscellany. I intend to see how much I can 'get through' before, in four days, I must again fly away. For my relatives I brought back caviar, black bread, Peter the Great tea, honey, dried squid, dried sausages, communist propaganda art, chocolates, a Father Frost statue and Russian woollen socks. I think I did well given that the alcoholic potato juice and reductive ever-miniaturising doll women were out of the question.

Christmas. In Russia it's a time for quiet, personal prayer. In England it's, technically, a time for paying your respects to the baby Jesus - who's birthday wasn't even on the 25th. For me, a 'massive atheist', it is/was/will be a time to meet friends and family and to exchange gifts. Jesus plays no part. Today is Boxing Day and I'll soon have to burst into the New Year Russian style before plodding through another 360 days until the next Christmas. I just hope that in 2011 it doesn't start kicking off in September as usual. I like to savour the build up. No mince pies or festive songs until December.

I leave you now with the words of Walter Scott:

Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale;
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man's heart through half the year.

To all of you I wish a very Merry Christmas and a frankly sublime New Year!

Farewell for 2010.

The sun, it's frozen!

My nose hurts, my ears hurt, my toes are going numb and my lungs are shocked at the behaviour of what's coming in. It's been getting colder, ok, that's fine, but a couple of days ago it really dropped. From -7 to -15. Today, as I write this, it's -25. My body and my wardrobe are throwing me silent looks of 'what the hell man!'

I'm seriously under-prepared, materially and facially. Last night I had Miguel and Sara over for dinner. I cooked a cockle-warming pork/beer/apple stew thing with mushrooms and onions, a potato salad with bacon, peas and hard-boiled egg and some of that grechka. They arrived at about 8:20. Miguel rang me from downstairs. I could hear the discomfort in his voice. They bundled into my flat in Arctic clothing.

'Jesus Christ, it's -19 outside. The wine's basically frozen.' He removed his face protector 'This coat? 300 euros. It's what they use on the polar expeditions'

I had a few jumpers and a coat, some thin gloves from H&M, no boots, and a woolly hat. Shopping was a necessity now that I knew what I was up against. Cold, exciting pain. It's quite thrilling, and a little scary, when you breathe deep as you leave your flat and flood your lungs with subzero air, the little thermometer on the metro station showing you minus too much. After a couple of minutes you really feel it. When the wind flies in it makes the eyes water, the face burn and the lips dry out. Should you remove your glove to send a text you have about 15 seconds before it stings. People walk about with ruddy faces, mine ruddier still. Your nose drips and you pull your collar up to hide your bare cheeks. You swear to yourself in amazement.

Winter is like this though. It yo-yos about. If I tell you the BBC forecast for this week at the time of writing it goes as follows:

Wednesday: Clear, -25

Thursday: Clear, -15

Friday: Partly sunny, -11

Saturday: Snow, -3

It's all over the shop. The weather has been more variable this autumn/winter that anything I've experienced in the UK. It seems to do what it likes. And what it likes seems to be joyous punishment punctured by more tender respites. I never thought I would get into the mindset of 'oh good -7, it's warm today'.

I'm still toying with what's worse, the massive heat - 35 degrees and higher - of central and southern Spain, or the minus 15s and below of Russia. One tires you out and, depending on activity, offers a sweat coverage and stops you wanting to do anything. The other hurts and is dangerous and stops you actually doing anything. I still can't decide. They are both as awesome and terrible as each other.

The heat of Spain carried with it women in few clothes, people relaxing outside in cafes and parks and the possibility of a tan.

The cold of Moscow carries with it romance and excitement, cosiness inside cafes, and snow making the world look perfect.

I'll mull it over.

Speaking of mull...ed wine. It's the 1st of December and Christmas/New Year is on its way. Twinkling lights, tinsel, snowflakes and Christmas trees have started popping up in the foyers of offices and in the windows of shops and eateries. This is where Russia does well. Summer isn't Russia. Russia nails that snowy, Christmassy, festive feeling like nowhere else. I plan to buy an artificial tree and deck its branchy halls with all manner of shiny snakes and sparkling baubles, with or without the approval of Richard. We have yet to plunge the metaphysical and severely existential depths of the question: 'Do you like Christmas?'. He may be a Scrooge or he may be like me, a child refusing to grow up.

I love Christmas, deal with it. If you don't, shut up. My same answer to the similar Coldplay question...

It's just a shame that at the moment there's no white carpet outside. The mercury dropped but the snow has yet to. Bring on Friday.

Last Saturday I hosted a small gathering at my house. A few Spaniards and a few Russians. We drank, snacked and listened to music for a few hours. It was relaxed and cosy, just what they wanted. The majority had been to a concert the night before and didn't really want to party hard. At about 2:30am Jose looked at his watched with a concerned face.

'If we are going to go out, we need to go out soon'

The majority then left in a cavalcade of taxis. Some military operation. And four of us were left: Fernando, Chema (Jose Maria), Dmitry and myself. We decided to go to a club called Crisis. It was only a 15minute walk away, and it was a fairly tolerable -7 outside. I suggested walking there.

'No, a taxi man! It's so cold' was the response...from the Russian! I was shocked, but not bothered. We piled into the taxi, teeth chattering. Within a couple of minutes we were in a traffic jam. A big one. It was 3:00am and we were in a bloody traffic jam... 'That's Russia' I suppose. We wasted about 10 minutes in the taxi before I suggested we walked. The consensus was 'ok'.

'Next time we listen to you' they laughed

A further 15 minutes and we arrived at the club. Content, but frozen.

'How many are you?' said the bouncer

'Just us four'

'No, you can't come in'

And that was that.

So much for plan A. We had no plan B, but a sort of plan A(i) presented itself to us in the form of a girl seeing off her friend outside. She overheard us talking and decided to first try and get us in, a lame idea that didn't work, and then give us directions to another bar. She was a little drunk and tired and her directions were 'go straight and then left'. This didn't inspire much confidence. She was then joined by the other friend she was with who had been inside collecting the coats. We then all left together in search of 'Papa's Place'.

It was -9 and a thin layer of snow had dusted the promenade and pond that ran from Prokovka street to the Chistiy Prudi (Clean Ponds) area. I was walking with the friend, a Belorussian called Olga. It turned out she was studying Japanese and English. We chatted for a while and both came to the conclusion that at this point, about 4:00am in the morning, we didn't want to drink alcohol. It would be tea. On reaching the bar our plan didn't sit well with the boys who went straight downstairs to the dance floor. I drank tea with the two girls. The other girl, Irene, studied Urdu and Uzbek. Earl Grey and pizza. The boys later returned.

'Well this place is shit' said Dima

'I'll not be coming back here' added Chema

'What's the problem?' I asked 'Is it a sausage factory?'

'Yes, basically' he replied.

At around 5:00am we started to finish up. The evening was essentially another failure. But it was enjoyable in its own way. I walked home as slow snow fell like glitter and landed silently on the streets and cars. In the dark, but lit by the street lights, everything glinted and sparkled. It was, to definitely sound cheesy, magical. The soporific effects of both the atmospheric scene around me and the slight tang of still present alcohol allowed me to ignore the fact that I was strolling through -1o without a hat.

Off to the shops I think.

[Edit: -21 is absurd]

The more berries on the tree now, the colder the winter will be...

Finally the thermometers are flirting with minuses. A tantalising two-day crust of snow/ice lies over everything as small numbers flicker below zero. 'It'll be -12 one day' says one person, '-20' says another. I can't believe it could drop so suddenly. My students have started advising me to buy thermal underwear. I guess it could. One day searing, clean wind shears through everything and whips through doorways, the next all is still and smells sit chilled on the unmoving, unshifting air. Dressing appropriately is so to become an 'issue'.

At the end of a very long week two things happened. The first was a failed-karaoke Friday evening and the second was a Saturday circus.

We started our night in the usual way. Everyone brings something to the flat. Vodka, juices, crisps, pickles, olives, sweets, whatever. Laid out. Music on. Guests arriving. Typical 'Spanish party'. In drips and drabs Spanish and Russian people piled into Alvaro and Manuel's palatial kitchen and calls of 'vodka and orange' lifted over The Kooks or whichever band was playing in the background. The windows started to steam up so one was opened allowing an icy sliver of wind to enter and readdress the balance. 'Shot! Chupito! Rumka!' Everyone groaned a little at the inevitable arrival of the little glasses filled to the brim with ice-cold vodka. Gagging sounds and 'urghs!', followed by pickles or sweets, was the denouement to the party. Eyes met and shared the same 'why do we always do this' glance.

The plan was to go to a private karaoke where hire out a booth with a machine. Personal embarrassment is only witnessed by your friends and not the spiteful, judging general public. The place where we wanted to patronize; as in visit, not tap on the door and say 'you are a good club aren't you', was closed. We then visited Zhiguli - part ground-level, cheap cafe, part snazzy, enormous underground club. We shuffled into the warmth. Manuel and I popped to the gleaming, mirrored toilets. We joked about having more luck with gyrating Russian girls than with singing songs anyway, zipped up and went back into the empty hall. The others had gone on ahead. We paid the 600 rouble (12 pound) entrance fee and went down.

A low-level but expansive, heaving, green-lit room lay before us. It was filled with classily-dressed men and women and provided excellent areas for both dancing, bar-standing and sitting. We pushed past groups of friends, women caressing each other for the enjoyment of their boyfriends, young bucks dancing awfully in front of uninterested girls, people shouting over the music to be heard by the barman and looked for our friends. Within a couple of minutes it became clear that they in fact hadn't come down and, not realising we were in the loos, had gone outside. Oh how we laughed and enjoyed ourselves for a while, toying with the dilemma of either sacking it and finding the others or trying to make the most of our 600 roubles. It was then we started to notice that the average age of the patrons was at least 30 and the average salary was probably astronomical. We shouldn't be here. We left, sat at a bus stop, waved on taxis, waited for the others to text us - for they were still searching for a new place - and then both decided to call it a night.

A Russian has since told us 'if you go out in Moscow, you need to plan. Plan A, B and C'

Saturday was far more successful.

On a snowy evening we met at the Universitet stop, with the campus skyscraper building looming over the trees like some shrouded, melodramatic vampire, and entered the large, permanent, Bolshoi Moskovskii Gosudarstvenii Tsirk, Grand Moscow State Circus. In the entrance hall/ring people handed coats in, bought nuts, popcorn or candy floss or had their photos taken with doped up Arctic foxes or expertly well-behaved rabbits and cats. At one point an unwilling fox made a scurrying run for it through the legs of circus goers and shot off round like some furry particle in the Hadron Collider. The photographer had clearly seen it all before, gave the girl a bunny, finished his photo, and walked off after the little vulpine escapist.

The show, based around the theme of a train passing through various stations, where all the different acts took place, was at once wonderful and entertaining but also depressing and vile.

The good: acrobats, laser shows, UV dancing and rope work, balancing acts, some sub-standard but endearing clowns and the legions of squealing and laughing kids.

The bad: the animals. Well, the dogs and sea lions were fine. They were doing simple, classic routines. The dogs ran around and jumped over things Crufts style and the sea lions balanced balls whilst receiving constant strokes and treats. The show had a more unpleasant taste, made worse by the heat and lack of leg-room in the stalls, when the dressed-up monkeys, subservient bears and lions drugged up to their eyeballs came out. The bears were running on their hind legs, doing forward rolls, and driving motorbikes. The lions did simple tricks, but could barely move about, and roared and protested feebly, such was the level of chemicals no doubt coursing through their bloodstream. Oh, prod that lion will you he's not getting off his pedestal quick enough. I hoped one of the beasts would remember what he was, a king, an apex predator, and would remove the face of the dancing, twirling, stick-wielding dandy who tormented them. They didn't.

The show ended with a birthday cake exploding into confetti, it was the 70th birthday. As great and terrible it was, it was Russian. That was the most important thing. As we walked back to the metro, the icy snow stabbing at our eyes, my mind wandered into the lion enclosure and opened the latch and left a photo of the tamer with a steak stapled to it.

My mouthwash contains hydrolysed silk! feat. cynicism

"If you are planning to spend this winter in Moscow be ready to survive in -30, to walk on ice only and to get acquainted with our special 'metro smell'"

The subzero temperatures and ice are holding off for the moment, but the Muscovite cologne is beginning to waft off people. This week has been pretty miserable in some ways.

In the morning maybe my cup of coffee and bowl of hot kasha (porridge) with honey sit smoking in the half-light as the sun struggles to throw light behind the blanket of clouds. My gluey eyes moan at me as I continue to prevent them from closing again and I sit, flumped in my little wooden chair in front of my searingly bright laptop screen. My wind-up internet connection delivers me my emails and some news and I double slap my cheeks, 'wake up!'. I try and kick start my head by reading some Dawkins or some Tolstoy. I huff and puff at my sloth and put on my sports kit, along with the little zip up jumper I bought to deal with the plummeting degrees. Although they aren't plummeting as Moscow is experiencing a warm front. 10-14 degrees during the day. I sweat in my little jumper, ignoring the occasional car horn and constant confused/bemused staring faces as I run down the grey, overcast streets and along the steel-coloured Yauza that feeds off the Moscow river. Side-step dirty puddles and crush deflated, wet browns and oranges; flesh that has fallen from the autumn trees.

In the afternoon maybe I boil some grechka (buckwheat), fry some chopped vegetables - tomatoes, mushrooms and pickled odds and ends - and throw in some adzhika (spiced tomato sauce) and some smetana (sour cream). I'm full. I trudge out into the muggy air, busy with spitted rain and hurled bricks of wind. I find the local babushka and her stand just outside the forecourt of my flat. I buy some musky freshly made cheese, 'from the cows walking around in the field this morning', and a little bottle of some home-made green spicy herb sauce that she makes, 'ochen vskusna, ochen vskusna!' (very tasty, very tasty). A hearty smile shifts her moustache as she warbles away at me in exuberant Russian. 'You're not from here are you?' she giggles 'I heard your accent and thought 'that's not a Russian accent'. Well, we'll talk again soon'. It's 4 o'clock and the world has been dim all day. When will I wake up?

In the evening maybe I slink into my suit or some other fairly smart looking clothing and suffer on the metro, inhaling the pungent, heady bodily aromas (that I can almost taste) of the unwashed rush-hour traffic heading home as I head to a class. The sky has turned black and the roads are clogged with twinkling headlamps and horns. I feign interest in the lives of my students for two hours as they fumble their way through the English language to tell me about something neither of us really care about. Groggy, I jostle back through the city and nearly collapse in on myself. Little glimpses of beautiful metro stations flicker through the train windows. At Kurskaya I descend into the foetid sauna of my little local supermarket and buy a large bottle of Baltika beer and some necessities. I choose the cashier who I know won't badger me for lower denominations, rouble coins. She'll take the note and let me be. Plastic bag, underpass, babushka gone, key-lift-key, back on my little wooden chair. Maybe I have a last cup of something hot and hang my head as my eyes burn with an unearned tiredness.

The half-light, the never-day, the rain, the colourless world around me at the moment is getting to me. Not emotionally, but physically. I'm tired all the time. I keep wanting to sleep but in my head I think 'no, I'll make the most of the day' and I end up making a compromise by just staring inanely at facebook or nearly nodding off trying to read Anna Karenina.

This isn't the case every day. Last Friday the sun broke through for a few measly hours. I had a day off and spent it wandering alone around Kolomenskoye; a perfect UNESCO park of wooden cathedrals, tended lawns, chapels and sweeping vistas. And then on Sunday a long walk to the red and white birthday cake churches, towers and turrets of the Novodevichy Convent. Now my favourite places in the city.

Bar the metro I'm looking forward to the other part of my Russian's predilection. Bring on the -30 and the ice. I'm tired of this irritating weather pretending to be English but succeeding only in ruining my free time and making the city look unhappy.

I am happy though.

A quick word on roads

'Is this legal?'

'Well...mm...yeah'

It wasn't.

Traffic in Moscow is legendary. It's a mess and the new Mayor, Sobyanin, has taken it as one of his three leading stances on his 'to do' list; as well as corruption and red tape. There are many reasons for the problems:

1. Upwards of 15 million people live here

2. The concentric ring road layout doesn't lend itself particularly well to the numbers

3. There is limited light-based control on the smaller roads

4. Russians will park their cars wherever they want - there are no double or single yellows here - and this causes bottlenecks.

5. Russians can't drive for toffee or any other sugar-based chewy substitute.

Being a metro user/walker I hadn't really seen the problems first hand. My classes started and ended either before or after rush hour and occasional late night taxis took me home when the roads were fairly empty or I was sufficiently blistered not to notice, or care to notice, the numbers of other road users. After finishing teaching a home-class my child student's mother decided to drive me a little into the city so I wouldn't have to sit on the metro for 40 minutes. Moscow's rush hour made sure it would take me longer.

We left her flat and got into the big, shiny 4x4,

'You must have big car in Moscow' she laughed.

Flats in Russia are usually strewn in large no man's land areas between roads. There is rarely any order to their placing and it can be near impossible to find 'number 5 Novgorodskaya street' when the number is just an arbitrary label for the sake of postage. You can find yourself walking through an expansive rabbit warren trying in vain to find the correct building. It is utterly disorientating. The same problem faced us on leaving the area. There was no easy way out. All the little roads that filtered out onto the road were jammed up because of the traffic.

'Probka, probka, probka' she muttered to herself. Traffic, traffic, traffic.

We were trying to get onto a small lane that lead up to a messy t-junction where we could eventually make our way to the main road.

'Like I said earlier, don't worry, I'm a magician'

She hauled the big, shiny off-roader off-road and onto the pavement. We trundled up to the t-junction past the waiting cars, making sure not to hit any pedestrians. I laughed in disbelief,

'Is this legal?'

'Well...mm...yeah'

It wasn't.

We muscled into the queue at the t-junction and slowly barged forward. There was no order. No etiquette. Just cars, everywhere. Horns shouting, lights flashing. There was a small flat-bed truck stopped all over a pedestrian crossing, trying to turn. Some cars were managing to get through the barricade, like metallic fishes flitting through some LED coral. My driver just continued to push our black behemoth through.

'Everyone drives as if they are correct'

It worked though.

'Why don't they put in traffic lights?' I asked

'I asked a traffic policeman that once. He said "we don't know how to"!'

More traffic later and I got home a lot nearer to bed time than I had planned but was pleased to have had a taste of the madness.

I'm glad Moscow has a metro.