Return Journey

Little Roo went back to Russia. The outbound flight from the Regional airport was delayed due to fog meaning another dash for the connecting flight in Switzerland. One security guard stated sternly: “Flying to Moscow? You still have to wait in the queue!”. Then another woman came and said “Flying to Moscow? You’d better run!”. Little Roo was, of course, behind the woman who was trying to send her baby seat through the security x-ray machine with the baby still inside it, whilst the frustrated official shouted in ten different languages “Take your baby out of the seat!”. She is beginning to suspect the motives of her suitcase, which then went on another city-break: this time in Zurich (once is an accident, but twice?).

All was well on the flight until the normally reassuring information on the mini-screens in the cabin began to show strange and alarming things. The red arrow indicating progress towards the destination turned back on itself and made lots of squiggles. Domodedevo Airport was closed due to heavy snowfall. After endlessly circling, the pilot decided to land anyway, though no-one had bothered to clear the snow from the runway. The passengers at the back began to clap as the wheels touched the ground: “Hang on a minute. We’ve still got to STOP yet!”, screamed Little Roo (in her head) as the plane skidded towards the airport building. After waiting for the case that was never going to arrive, Little Roo reported it missing - which took a trip to three different offices, filling every form in duplicate even though she was sat next to a photocopier. Then it all had to be translated into Russian. By the time Little Roo entered the Arrivals Hall, it was nearly two hours since the expected time of arrival and the driver was nowhere to be seen. She was stalked by an unofficial taxi driver (they are a shady bunch) who was determined that she was going to be his next fare (or is next meal?). A few impatient calls to the put-upon PA and all was well.

Moscow Hairstyles

Back in England, Little Roo made an urgent appointment at the hairdressers. Reader: let this be a warning to you – never give the hairdresser any creative freedom. The hairdresser was going for a Farah-Fawcett-meets-Anthea-Turner style which turned into a Dougal-from-the-Magic-Roundabout-meets-Les-from-the-Bay-City-Rollers look. Now with her new fur-trimmed Parka, Little Roo resembles Trisha Yates from Grange Hill. For anyone who doesn’t understand these 1970s references (weren’t you watching ‘Life on Mars’?), it’s safe to say that Little Roo was disappointed. But all is not lost, as Moscow is the home of strange retro haircuts. It is a widely known fact that all Russian hairdressers attend the same hairdressing school, where they learn the three standard haircuts for men: the mullet (for men in muscle T-shirts), the crew cut (for skinny men) and the fuzzy bush with goatee beard (for overweight men). Women also have a choice of three styles: the long, blonde and ironed flat (for trophy wives), the 1950s perm (for babushkas), and the German-style spikey mullet with optional red dye (for people with no taste).

Back in the UK, baggage elsewhere

Little Roo is briefly back in England. Her suitcase has had a little holiday of its own – a city break in Prague courtesy of Czech Airlines baggage handlers.
Whilst in Moscow, Little Roo has been fantasising about Shepherd’s Pie, baked beans on toast and roast potatoes. So, now in the UK, she went out food shopping - but came back with two different types of cabbage; she has turned proper Russian! She is going round the house attempting to sing Russian folk songs, such as ‘The Cossacks were passing by” (she's making up the words, of course) apparently about a girl who gets tied to a tree by her hair, thanks to a band of marauding horsemen, then the forest is set on fire!

The Human Pin Cushion

The Russian Embassy surpassed itself in unhelpfulness today by not even letting Little Roo past the automated switchboard. She got caught in an endless loop of messages and extension numbers that delivered her back to the main menu and so on until even the machine got bored and cut her off. Despite waiting over a month, now, at the eleventh hour, it has been decided that her educational certificates will need to be translated into Russian and legally verified, with all the official stamps on them. But who can do official translations, notarisation and apostille, how long will it take and what will it cost? The Russian Embassy are not going to tell her, that’s for sure! Did you know there is a Government 'Legalisation Dept' somewhere in London - it's all very Orwellian.

With a provisional date for flying off, much to her relief, tomorrow is the last jab that Little Roo will be able to squeeze in before her trip. After a booster for Diphtheria, Polio and Tetanus, an inoculation against Typhoid, three injections for Hepatitis A & B and another two for Rabies, she may join a Freak Show as ‘The Human Pin Cushion’ if this venture does not work out.

Let's start at the beginning...

Once upon a time (as all good adventure stories begin…) Little Roo went to the Russian Embassy to get a visa, as per the mysterious instructions e-mailed from Moscow. It was everything that Little Roo had imagined: a grand fortress hidden behind high walls in a leafy suburb. Inside it was decorated in 1970s-benefit-office-meets-church-hall style. The dour woman at the tiny counter window peered through the triple-glazed toughened glass; she had the air of someone who knew the Cold War could re-start at any minute and she was not going to be caught out being friendly and helpful to “the enemy”. No visa here. A trek across the city to another office allowed Little Roo more time to rehearse what she should say if they asked for additional information: “I am an advisor, going to Moscow on business. I am going to meet with representatives of my field of activity to settle a mutual beneficial co-operation(??) ”. In the event, the staff were not interested in this nonsensical story, now committed to memory, but insisted that a supporting letter be faxed from Moscow. Arriving minutes before the office closing time (via a chain of communication involving at least three layers of “middle men”), the letter was in Russian so Little Roo was none the wiser about who she would be meeting in Moscow.