7.30 am and the mob at the bus stop in Dolgoprudny are getting restless. The 368 to Rechnoy Vokzal is late again. A gang of Babooshkas huddle together. They smell blood. When that bus arrives they are going to make damn sure that they get on it and that they get a seat.
A lone Brit stands defiantly against them. This time they shall not defeat him. This time he shall not be battered from head to toe by a gang of fat Russian pensioners.
In the distance a bus is sighted. The mob has grown ever larger. It is -20 and if he doesn't get on the bus our Brit will surely die of something similar to Captain Scott.
The bus approaches. Does the bus company actively recruit in Kazakhstan? All the drivers come from there. All the drivers are bloody lunatics.
As the bus slows to a halt our plucky Brit prepares himself for the battle that is to come. Speed is needed to counteract the overwhelming numbers that he faces. As soon as the doors open, he is off, elbows out, clattering Babooshkas all over the icy pavement. Up the stairs he goes and on to his prize-the single seat in the lefthand corner of the bus. Yes! He made it. Laughing, our hero sits triumphantly as the traffic grinds to halt in yet another traffic jam.
Babooshkas, today you lost. Today was my day!