Warming up.

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Aleksandr Ivanovich taught us this afternoon. I'm not looking to become a translator - why spend days huddled over a book and a dictionary when there in Rossiya outside your window? - but it's obvious that I will get nowhere without at least some of the skills, and his lessons have the best structure to them.

With all the snow turning into puddles in front of my eyes it's impossible even to walk to the end of ulitsa Zhelyabova without getting my trousers wet up to the knees. I ran out of clean clothes today, so I had to go to the basement to use the hostel washing machine for the first time. It is probably older than I am, and not very user-friendly. I stuffed as many socks and shirts into it as I could, found the tray for the powder, and waited. And waited, for something to happen. After two minutes and a soft kick on the side something did, and it creaked into life.

Meanwhile I had nothing to do. My corridor is becoming a very lethargic place, as even though the temperature is ten degrees warmer than last week the heating is at the same level. Watching some Russian television is always the easiest option; ten minutes of a dubbed American serial or MTV Moskva programme, then ten minutes of commercials. The ad-breaks are the reason I watch - my favourite at the moment is the gorgeous lady from Moya Prekrasnaya Nyanya advertising Lyubimyi fruit juice.

Tiredness beat me at 11 and I fell asleep on my mattress, which is now on the floor to spare me sleeping on the wooden board.

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Photos

Saltykov-Schedrin.
A memorial to the writer, who once lived in Tver.