The Photo Gallery: Bond

This post is for Wk 129 of The Photo Gallery (click here to see the other entries), and the theme this week is 'bond'.

When Husband and I decided to have two children, one of the main reasons in my mind was that I wanted siblings who would have the same bond my sister and I had; to be friends, as well as related by blood.

I think we managed it.

(This photo was taken 3 years ago but is as true a reflection of my sons' relationship now as it was then).

Curing back pain, Russian-style

I'm not sure I've ever felt this glamorous.

I mentioned recently that I've started seeing a chiropractor here in Moscow for my back.  So far, so good - except for one thing.  He treats me in the clinic, yes - and that's fine.  But there's also another thing that I have to do to be cured, apparently.  It involves cling-film and a noxious-smelling oil. Like I said, it's glamorous.

What, you want details?  Well I believe the technical drawings for this procedure would include (Fig1); a woman smearing anti-inflammatory gel on her lower back, then (Fig 2) mixing a noxious smelling oil with water in a jar - kept handily in the bathroom for this very purpose - before soaking a disreputable-looking rag in it.  (Fig 3) depicts her wringing the soaked rag out in the sink, and in (Fig4) she's gagging slightly at the smell and balancing the fragrant material precariously across the gel smeared portion of her back.

(Fig 5) would show the same woman wrestling with a roll of cling-film (doesn't everyone keep a roll of the stuff in the bathroom for this sort of thing?  No - me neither, which is why (Fig 5.5) would show her rushing downstairs only in a bath robe, dripping yukkiness everywhere, to fetch it) and in (Fig 6) she's muttering to herself 'where is the fxxking end of this stuff?' before (Fig 7) tearing off a long piece and throwing it crossly in the bin because it got all wrinkled up and couldn't be used.

(Fig 8) would feature her wrapping the cling-film a couple of times around her midriff to keep said noxious rag firmly in place, and then (Fig 9) struggling to put a mess of stretchy crepe-bandage into a roll whilst the revolting smelling oil dripped out from  under the cling film around her middle.  (Fig 10) shows the embarrassingly long crepe bandage reaching only a few times around the woman's waist to hold the cling-film in place, and (Fig 11) the moment when she stabs herself in the finger with the special clips that cleverly hold stretchy crepe bandage exactly where it should once she is all trussed up (note- she has not the first idea of the correct name for said clips).

(Fig 12) shows the children hammering on the door to come in and use the bathroom only to (Fig 13) melt away with loud exclamations of disgust when confronted with noxious chemical smell as (Fig 14) the woman exits the bathroom to lie on the bed for 30 minutes whilst - according to the chiropractor - the medicine does it's work and helps to ease the inflammation around the affected area of her back.

(Fig 15) shows the same woman removing all the gubbins mentioned above and taking her second shower of the day to get rid of the stink.

And (Fig 16)?  Shows the woman laughing hysterically as the chiropractor earnestly tells her that to get the maximum impact from this treatment, she really should be doing it twice a day...

Silent Sunday

The Photo Gallery; Adventure

This post is for Tara's Photo Gallery, and this week's prompt is 'Adventure'.  Click here for links to the other entries.

If you've visited The Potty Diaries before, you may know that I'm currently living in Moscow, Russia.  Life here can be seen as taxing, exhausting, and insular, if you're not careful.  It's easy to reach the stage where you close yourself off from the constant assault of 'Foreign' on your senses, choosing to stay home, venture out only when the cupboards are bare, and live from the beginning of one school term to the end of the next, buoyed up only by the prospect of leaving for your next trip 'home' the instant the school bell rings.

People do that, here.  For years sometimes.

Or, you can simply treat each day as an adventure.  Even when all you're doing is making a trip to the supermarket.

I've been wanting to take this particular photo for a while now.  Any ex or current Moscow residents reading this blog will probably recognise this spot; it's on the main road from Sheremetyevo Airport - for a long time, the only international airport for the city - into Moscow.  The soldier shown is in memorial of the soldiers of the 2nd World War (there is a female version on the opposite side of the road), and it's an iconic representation to many Muscovites of the pride they have in the sacrifice Russia's people made in fighting back the tide of Nazism.

To me, he and his female compatriot simply symbolise Moscow, and on a personal level - Adventure*.

* Because let me tell you, it felt pretty adventurous lowering the window in -15degC so I could take the photo whilst negotiating heavy traffic...

I am a Moscow winter driver - hear me roar...

We've had a lot of snow in Moscow recently.  And by 'a lot of snow', I don't mean a paltry few centimeters.  I mean a LOT of snow.  This weekend alone, there was a record snow fall of 63cm (that's more than 2 feet in old money).  Don't believe me?  Look; even the Beeb are writing about it (so of course, it must be true).

The strange thing is, whilst I've noticed that it's been a bit a painful on the roads, and certainly more slippery than usual to get up the hill out of our little corner of snowy paradise, I would not for a moment have thought it was that much.

Could it be that after 3 years here I have... assimilated?

Yes, this morning on my drive to the nearest metro station, I did think that there was a lot of snow still on the road considering we were in rush-hour on a Monday morning, which is normally the time when the snow ploughs would have ensured that if at all possible, the highways were clear.  And yes, when I reached the station and had to park more or less in a snow drift, I did wonder just what was going on.  And admittedly, when I couldn't find a spot in the school car park when I went to pick the Boys up this afternoon, I did think it was really quite busy, and how inconvenient it was that so many parking spots were unavailable because they were filled with 4 metre high piles of snow that the street cleaners had put there in desperation because the usual snow clearing trucks unaccountably hadn't turned up.

And finally, it did cross my mind once the Boys and I had climbed back into the car that perhaps it might have been simpler to walk as the chances we might get stranded there - if the car got bogged down as I executed a 3 point turn on an un-cleared single lane track - were higher than I was comfortable with.

But I never for a moment really doubted my ability to get the car turned around in piles of 2ft high snow, saying to the Boys as I completed the manouever successfully; "I am a GODDESS!"

Unsurprisingly, my sons did not concur, pointing out that a) goddesses don't drive cars and b) if they did, they could just magic themselves out of tricky snow/car-related situations and c) I wasn't wearing a toga*.

But anyway.  63cm of snow in one weekend.  And I drove through it, successfully.  Yes, I AM patting myself on the back; I think I deserve to after spending the first 25 years of my driving life in a country where the snow usually falls only once or twice a year and may only hang around for a day or so when it does arrive. You're welcome to drive on over and disagree with my awarding myself plaudits if you want, of course.  Pack a thermos flask of tea and a couple of blankets** though - those roads are a bit tricky...


* Although I'm sure I could really rock the toga look, a sheet and snow boots never seemed to me to be the obvious sartorial choice for the school run on a -12degC day.  Or, indeed, on any day.

** Yes of course I had those with me in the car. I am always that prepared. Cough.

Silent Sunday

Don't judge a book by it's reputation

I've been struggling with a bad back for the last few weeks; it wasn't only chilblains* that the Potski family pickd up during our holiday in the UK.  Foolishly, I also tried to pick up a much-too-heavy suitcase, first thing in the morning, whilst staying in cold damp house - with predictable results for someone with a weak back, and who should know better.  Consequently since we got back to Moscow, I've been trying to locate a chiropractor who speaks English and who I actually trust not to do me more harm than good.  Thankfully, yesterday morning I found one.

Part of the chiropractic consultation process with Boris (yes, his real name) involved me getting some x-rays taken.  Not, unfortunately in the clinic where he runs his practice, but in a Russian hospital one metro stop away.  Having x-rays taken is, in itself, a usual part of the process with a new chiropractor, but I must admit that the prospect of going to a Russian hospital to do so daunted me a little.  Expats, you see, tend to go to expat hospitals in Moscow.  Not only because it's more likely that you'll find someone who speaks your language, but because - by reputation, anyway - Russian hospitals are a little... basic.  Boris however gave me assurances that whilst somewhat Soviet in style, the hospital he was sending me to had the latest equipment, so after he made a quick phone call to arrange it I gathered my stuff - and my prejudices - and set off through the driving snow.

After my visit to the hospital, my prejudices stand corrected.  Once I had used my appalling Russian to negotiate my way past the aged-retainer security guard on the front gate (mainly by waving my map at him and waiting until he was distracted by the much easier option of dealing with a delivery driver who he could actually communicate with, rather than this awkward expat with her nursery-level Russian), it was plain sailing, and the little of the hospital that I actually saw was on a par with most UK ones. I would even dare to say that it appeared cleaner than many.

Sure, the uniforms of the nurses and doctors were perhaps more relaxed than those back home, and money changed hands for the xrays, but it was less than you might think, and certainly a great deal less than I would have paid at one of the expat hospitals here.  Other than that I could have been back in London.  Except, let me think - I had the x-rays taken yesterday morning.  I would not have been surprised to get the actual photographs in my hands later that afternoon, or perhaps - bearing in mind it was a Friday - sometime early next week.

In this case, however?  I left the hospital 15 minutes after putting my top back on - with the x-rays in my bag.


*Chilblains (click here for a link to explain what they are if you're lucky enough never to have had them) are something Boy #1 and I both suffer from, though not - interestingly - in Russia. 3 years of living for 5 months of year at sub zero temperatures, and no chilblains.  But 2 weeks of staying in UK houses in the winter?  Guess what Boy #1 came back to Russia with...