Continued ... Turned out it was an early morning driving school.

Now, sadly, it’s gone and there’s an enormous erection over there – twelve story crane and various other supporting cranes with gantries – the main crane with an enormous arm which, if they wished, could swing across almost to my balcony but much higher of course, me being on the eighth floor, as I’ve already mentioned.

I suspect it’s an oil drilling rig.

Which of course reminds me of James Bond in OHMSS, where the electronic copier was swung across to him that way to the strains of John Barry’s electrifying theme, which reminds me of Diana Rigg, which reminds me of pretty girls, which reminds me of what is on the street right now. Sadly, as easy on the eye as they are, they are no substitute for the babushka [grandmother] armies of old.

On a day following a day of torrential rain, suddenly they’d appear in wellies, headscarves and armed with straw brooms, en masse and I’d wait for them to mount and take off in the direction of the feebly rising sun but no such luck. They’d set to and begin sweeping one puddle across to another and then, satisfied with a job well done, they’d retire for tea and torte. This also was fascinating to observe.

On the street some half hour later, the latest stage in the kiosk war would be in progress. It began with one of the boxed metal framed and gaily vertical-striped canvas-awninged stalls tentatively setting up by the footpath [8 metres wide where we are] and by the next day, another had joined it for company, selling – well – everything from toilet paper to kiddies toys, bananas from the south and spanners.

Within a week, there’d be a dozen stalls in place vending anything, not unlike Greenwich market or Camden but unenclosed and offering a wider variety. Then would come the babushki again beside them, seated on upturned boxes and chatting whilst rubbing cold hands and the breath clouding the air. I always made a point of buying from them because it was free enterprise of the purist kind.

Then suddenly, one day, they’d all be gone and the explanation of one or two of the babushka I’d recognize was that there was a new super-hyper-grotty-mafia-mafia market opening two months later some kilometre away and they helpfully wanted to clear a path, as it were, before the project got under way. No matter, for some days later, one babushka would bravely defy the law and set up again, only further along in the direction of my house.

Then another.

Then another.

Within days, the first awning would appear again and give it another week and our mini-mart was up and running once more. The populace would flock to these mini-marts in either defiance or simply because it was much closer than the hyped up Hypers elsewhere. Who am I kidding? It was governed by price, pure and simple.

I used to share tea and torte with one particular grandmother [one should always attach oneself to one if a foreigner because nobody knows the lie of the land better] and one day I told her I’d seen tomatoes for seven roubles eight kopeki on the corner of Lenina and she grilled me mercilessly about it before demanding we go there henceforth. It turned out to be so – she’d saved point seven kopeki per kilo and I was her friend for life.

I was also knackered after the half kilometre jaunt there and the half kilometre jaunt back again, whereas she was in fine fettle as only a bargain hunter can be who’s just made a killing and the apple charlotka and tea would now dominate the next half hour. Later, the telephone network would buzz, as she’d inform all the other troops and the name of the foreigner would be added to the list of ‘occasionally reliable informants’.

More on the charlotka saga next time.