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'Dobrideen' he said. It meant 'hello' in

  • 'Dobrideen' he said. It meant 'hello' in Russian but I didn't speak any Russian. 'Hello?' I said, 'what did you say?' But you answered me' he said. 'You said 'hello' right back. 'w

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  • -ell in Soviet Russia you can't insult someone by saying 'your mother wears combat boots' because the person's mother probably does." His beard was thick and wet.

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  • It quickly froze over, as the Russian winter was as cold as it was Soviet. I punched his beard and it shattered. "Heh, now your chin has no protection," I said. His mother's boots

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  • , black thigh-high polyurethane stilletos, were ill-fitting & also no match for the biting Russian winds. Plus, he couldn't walk in them on ice. Then I pushed him down & his chin

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  • fused to the metal buckle on his left stiletto thigh boot. I helped him stagger along bent over. I nodded saying "Dobry den!" to passers by. The Siberian winds made Petrograd a

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  • feast for the eyes. Hills were covered in green grass which gave way with the wind. In the valley were gardens with trees that bore fruit. By a swimming pool we met Petrograd's

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  • private dancer. She was a dancer for money insisting that love had nothing to do with it. She picked a large ripe apple from one of the trees near the pool and tossed it to

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  • a passing dog. Unfortunately she missed, and ended up with a large puddle of apple mush. Deciding that she was ready to take her private dancing career to the next level, she got a

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  • pole and flailed it around in the apple mush while stomping her feet to an invisible rhythm. The mush flew into the air like fireworks, creating a backdrop for her dancing skills.

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  • The world was mesmerised by her dancing skills, but it was not enough to save them from nuclear Armageddon.

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