Western Morning News (Saturday)
Russia’s moles checking my molars
ALL I wanted was a dental appointment. I mean, is that too much to ask? Well, it seems so. Indeed, it seems that the Russians might be interested in my gnashers. It must be so because my dentist has been the victim of a cyber attack. All his computers are down and he can’t do his work.
Clearly this must be something to do with my fine pearlies. I’m sure as I write that my fillings and gum depths are being admired by some Politburo spy anxious to know about the quality of my teeth.
They’re everywhere. The Russians, that is. My nephew bought a house in London and took a parcel in for his neighbour. He’s a curious chap and googled the name on the label. The Russian name showed him to be a dissident who happens to be on Putin’s wanted list. So taking parcels in doesn’t really seem such a bright idea. Put a Union Jack in your window lad and paint your number clearly on the roof and on the pavement so there can’t be any mix-up.
I remember being in Looe with friends. It was late and we were sitting in their front room imbibing a little too much when there was a knock on the door. A man stood there, with a couple of rather seedy-looking blokes behind him. He gesticulated and mumbled something. We gathered that the men were sailors and were after a drink.
One of our number jumped up and said, “They’re Russian – I can speak to them”, and proceeded to burble. Their eyes widened and they turned on their heels. “What did you say?” we asked, overcome by his linguistic abilities. “Er, well, the only Russian I know is that ‘we have no elephants in our garden’,” he said, looking slightly sheepish. Well, it did the trick.
I have interesting memories of Russia. I took our eldest son to St Petersburg some 20 years ago and was in awe of the sheer brilliance of Russian workmanship. The palaces were extraordinary: fabulous furniture, beautifully crafted semi-precious stones, rose quartz chandeliers, tables, floors in marquetry using every colour of crystal – ametrine, amethyst, jade and more.
Russian music is haunting, soulsearching, and its performers solemn, kind. For many, the memory of the siege of Leningrad, as it was known, when their ancestors starved to death, will have etched itself into their DNA.
We had a memorable massage in St Petersburg. We got lost looking for a banya, a Russian steam room. The building we went to turned out to be the public wash house – dark green tiles, acrid smells and gummy old ladies shuffling past with raggy towels under their arms.
The owner clearly misunderstood our request. He took us up in a rickety iron lift, probably not serviced since the Russian revolution. There, we gathered, we had rented the entire floor for the day. That meant that we could play table tennis with broken rackets, look at an empty bar, use a loo and have a massage.
The masseuse was a surgeon who made more money from pounding the flesh than operating. And, boy, could she pound. Her hands could have exfoliated an armadillo. No soft mood music here, she was listening to a football match and every time there was a goal she would yell, raising her arms and bringing them down with a crash on any available flesh. I didn’t care – I had my eye on the coiled rubber tubing and funnel on the trolley, wondering if I’d prefer to run naked through the streets of St Petersburg than to think about its use.
Our younger son saw the side of the Russian police that we didn’t witness. He did the whole Trans-Siberian Railway with a friend. They shared a carriage with some Russian lads and despite not sharing a single word, played cards. When my son and friend woke the next day, the lads had pinched the friend’s passport, a bottle of tablets and, inexplicably, my son’s elderly flip-flops.
The police got on the train at the next stop – in the middle of Siberia. They took details and son and friend got off the train and were told to stay in the town. Two days later, the police returned. Because Russian travellers are required to give their details when they travel, the lads had been traced. The bloodied knuckles of one of the officers were shown with pride to our boys.
The thieves had suffered more than that, though. Miffed at being robbed, our son and his friend embellished their story and told the police the thieves had drugs about their person.
So when the thieves were found, they had to go through the indignity of an internal search. Worse still, they’d taken the black and green tablets expecting to get high. Little did they know, they were Imodium, and they are probably, to this day, still sitting on the loo hoping that all things will pass.
And I’m still waiting for my appointment, hoping that the Russians will keep their hands off my molars.
The masseuse was a surgeon who made more money from pounding the flesh than operating. And, boy, could she pound.