Are memories made of this?

Quite often, I look around at where we - the Potty family - currently are, and wonder: what will my children remember about this adventure? Will this be an experience studded with jewel-like memories that they will take out and polish up to show off to family and friends in years to come? Will they remember the ice-skating on Red Square, the boat trips on the Moscow River, the expat auction where Dad bought a picture of tractors? Will they remember the beggars on the street, the richly decorated metro stations, the tanks and 20 metre long missiles rumbling down Tverskaya on Victory Day? Will they remember the glittering air as the humidity crystalised on freezing days, the terrible traffic jams, the constant trips to Ikea?

Or will it just all melt into one 'Oh, I lived in Russia once, for a while' anecdote that gets pulled out every now and again when the latest president does or says something newsworthy?

I hope it doesn't. Because yesterday, we had a day that should be what memories are made of; a trip a couple of hours out of Moscow to the birthday party of a Russian acquaintance.

If I had speculated what it would be like and had written it down in advance, I would probably have deleted the file as too predictable. There was a long journey. There were horses being exercised by grooms in the paddock when we arrived. There was a warm welcome and pink champagne (admittedly, not for my sons), marble flooring, and home cinema where 'Prince Caspian' never seemed so lifelike. There were little girls racing around in curls and pretty dresses, and a handsome older son who was accompanying an adaptation of a Tolstoy play put on by guests on a grand piano. There was a group of family and old friends, between whom there was real affection, much toasting, and plenty of vodka being drunk in the birthday girl's honour. There were guitars and folk songs - mostly Ukranian - being sung firstly around the dinner table and later by the fire pit on the banks of a lake as the sun went down. There were fireworks - what fireworks! - organised by a group of loyal retainers, drivers gathered in a forecourt outside as the 4x4's mustered to whisk the guests back to Moscow, (watched over by a man with a gun), and a journey home in the utter darkness of the Russian countryside.

As a hook to hang some of a little boy's memories of his time in Russia, I think you'll agree, not at all bad.

Mind you, I wouldn't be at all surprised if what is remembered is not any of the above but a conversation I had with one of my sons. One of the guests at the party was a very friendly - and pretty - 13 year old girl who, because she spoke good English (rarer than you might imagine over here), was popular with my Boys. At a certain point she disappeared upstairs to get changed for the play that I mentioned above, and reappeared in a dress worthy of Pride and Prejudice. It prompted the following exchange:

Boy ?: "Wow!"

Me: "Yes, doesn't she look pretty?"

Boy X?: "Yes, she does. (Pause). I never saw her like that before. (Note: he had met her for the first time that day). She's got boobies!"

No prizes for guessing which of my boys this came from...