Definitely NOT cooking with gas...

We had a new oven delivered yesterday (yes, even in Moscow such things do exist). This was not through capriciousness on my part ('must have shiny new things around me...') but because of the fact that our previous one, being a) elderly and b) generally crap was not working properly. Of the four hotplates on top - for yes, it was that abomination, an electric oven - only one produced any real heat, which meant that cooking anything other than pasta with a stir-in sauce was a bit of a challenge. And whilst I do like a stir-in sauce, we have been here nearly four months, so...

In any case, a few weeks ago I threw my toys out of the pram and told Husband that given the extortionate rent we are paying for our house (subtext; given the fact that I am FORTY THREE YEARS OLD and TOO OLD TO BE COOKING WITH A CRAP OVEN), he should sort the situation out. Knowing what was good for him - and being heartily sick of pasta with stir-in sauce - he negotiated with the managers of our house and hey presto, new oven. (Well, hey presto and a little something extra, anyway).

'Yes, Mr Potty, you will have a new oven by the end of the month' he was told. 'We will send over some model specifications for your wife to choose from.' I would love to say at this point that what we anticipated was a joint decision for the two of us, but let's be honest, we all know that this one was going to be down to me, so I waited eagerly for the pamphlets to be delivered. And what turned up? One. One poxy spec. For the updated version of the same model we already had. (Welcome to Russia).

In any case, I was just desperate to be able to ditch the Sacla, so I dutifully said yes and yesterday, the oven arrived - along with 2 workmen to fit it. Only two? Lo, how the mighty have fallen. I suspect this dramatic fall in numbers (remember how it took 5 workmen to replace our washing machine?) may have more to do with a conspicuous lack of tips on our part than with any efficiency drive on the part of our compound management, but still.

And, seeing as improvement in my command of Russian since their last visit is negligible (must do my homework), here is my imagined translation of what the workmen were saying this time...

Workman #1: "Right. Give me a hand with this, will you? We just need to slide the old one out and..."

Workman #2: "I can see their shipment finally arrived from England. Nice coffee machine. Think we can sneak in a Nespresso when her back is turned?"

Workman #1: "Maybe later. Right now, I need you to pass me the instruction manual. OK, right, first turn off the fuse. Know where that is?"

Workman #2: "Yep. I'll go do that and be back in a mo..."

10 minutes pass. Much puffing and panting and wheezing from Workman #1 in the kitchen. Then...

Workman #1: ~"Sergei! Sergei! Where the fuck are you? I've been trying to unplug this dam thing for 10 minutes now and you're - well, what are you doing?"

Workman #2: "Keep your hair on comrade. I was just checking out the Dyson under the stairs. Seems in a reasonably good state of repair but they really need to wash out the filter..."

Workman #1: "How many times? Don't - call - me - COMRADE! Pass me the wire stripper, will you? And take your head out of that cupboard!"

Workman #2: "Can you believe she's brought a handmixer without any paddles with her? These westerners, really. How can she hope to make any decent cake without a proper mixer? Not that she needs to, mind. Put a bit of weight on since our last visit, don't you think? I bet you any money you like there'll be a wii-fit in residence by the next time we get called out."

Workman #1: "Wire-strippers. Now, please."

Workman #2: "In a minute. She's got her head stuck in that laptop again, so I'm just popping outside for a fag break. Can you switch that Nespresso machine on whilst you're over there...?"