That's it. I'm giving up...

Lent starts tomorrow.

I know this because the Boys insisted on pancakes this evening - and because I am, in a slightly woolly, pick and choose sort of a way, a Roman Catholic.  This time of year brings back memories of interminable weeks of Denial as a child: denial of  whatever treat it was that I had decided to give up, denial that I had in fact given up on Denial and sneaked whatever treat it was I was supposed to have given up (for some reason dark chocolate Bounty bars spring to mind here), and denial that the distinctive red and white wrappers in the kitchen bin had anything to do with me once they were discovered languishing at the bottom of it.  (Quite why I didn't dispose of them elsewhere I have no idea.  Must try harder on the subterfuge...)

So the thought occurred to me; should I give up anything this year? And if so, what? My life is quite sick-makingly boring in many ways at the moment;  I don't drink alcohol (most) Monday's to Fridays (and although all bets are off at the weekend, the drink-driving laws here make having even half a glass of wine, if you're planning on getting behind the wheel within 24 hours, a bad idea), I don't smoke, I scratch cook, I try and eat/drink my 5 a day.  Yes, I have a chocolate habit but even that's been curbed significantly in recent years, due mainly to the fact that nowadays I have decided life is too short to eat bad chocolate.  If we were living back in London then of course that would probably not impact significantly on my consumption levels, but here in Moscow the subsequent supply problems - not a Green & Black's 70% bar to be purchased for love nor money, for example - do rather put the stops on my galloping addiction...

Of course, there is always the polar opposite approach, that of doing something extra like, say, walking for an hour every day, or offering my services to carry a babushka's shopping across the road, but I think in the latter case I would probably end up being arrested, and in the former wasting so much petrol driving through the traffic to somewhere different each day to take the walk, that both seem counter productive.

So.  That leaves me with one thing.  One glaringly obvious thing I can try and do without for the next 40 days.

I am going to try and live without Diet Coke until Easter Sunday.

What - you didn't think I was going to give up the blog, did you? You should be so lucky...

May I just say; this is no small undertaking. I have been known to speak directly to my cans of Diet Coke in the past (usually to tell them that I don't need them and they shouldn't get big-headed about their regular 11am appearance in my day).  In fact, I actually don't expect to manage it.  The problem with leading such a boring lifestyle is that the 'little' indulgences like dark chocolate - which, by the way, was never under discussion as a potential 'giving up' target, since I have it on good authority that in (cough) small amounts, it's actually good for you - and Diet Coke assume a wholly disproportionate level of importance in your routine.

Quite how I'm going to manage without my daily fix of it remains to be seen, but I suspect that my parameters on what constitutes 'bad' chocolate may be about to change somewhat.  Dark chocolate Bounty bar, anyone?

The Great Chocolate Outrage of 2011

It's the little things that can push you over the edge as an expat, I find. I'm not talking about when you first arrive at a destination, when you're half-dazed with taking in new and strange things, and so busy acclimatizing to your environment that it seems as if your new place of residence will never feel like home. Everywhere you look — at least, to a first-time expat like myself — you see unfamiliar procedures and customs. "Why can't I turn left on this empty road?" you wonder. "Why do I have to pay for my petrol before I fill up at the pump?" "Why, when I want to buy anything at a swanky cosmetic store, is it necessary to select my goods, be given a ticket, walk to the opposite side of the store to pay, and then take my receipt back to the original counter to collect my goods?"

Good questions, perhaps, but also all things that simply are, and as my husband said to me shortly after we arrived in Moscow, "'There's no point asking 'Why?' Don't ask 'Why?' Just ask 'How?'" Excellent advice, and since I started to follow it most of those perplexing "Why" moments have disappeared. So no, it wasn't a "Why?" moment that caused me to throw my toys out of the pram and stomp crossly around for a good five minutes this weekend before deciding to indulge in the free therapy of writing it down.

What happened? Well, I'm a little embarrassed to admit that it involved … chocolate. Namely, a Britain-sourced stash of it that I had been hoarding since a recent trip back to England, and which is entirely unavailable here in Russia — at least, on the open market. Obviously, it is possible to buy chocolate here, I know that. But if you are at all a fan of this particular form of fat in a handy handbag-sized block, you will know that not all chocolate is created equal. Chocolate, you see, is produced specifically for local markets, to local tastes, and recipes vary from one country to the next. In Russia, consumers like their chocolate sweet. And that's OK, that's fine, but if you've been brought up on semi-skimmed milk then full fat just isn't going to cut it if you want a refreshing drink. So it is with chocolate, and I'm afraid that I'm not a fan of the Russian version.

I'm sure there are plenty of people who would throw their hands up in horror at this confession. Russian chocolate is — I've been reliably informed by many Russians — the best in the world. Nothing can compare. And I learned the hard way not to argue with this when, on a crusade to educate a Russian friend on what "real" (as in "my preferred type of") chocolate actually is, I gave her a box that I had brought back from the Britain with strict instructions not to share it, only to discover a couple of days later that the individually wrapped bars of nectar had ended up in her children's lunchboxes. Oh, the horror …

So now, I keep schtum — and on the plus side, don't have to share. The chocolate I bring back from trips to Blighty with me is mine, all mine. Occasionally I share it with my family, but since I'm blessed with a husband and sons for whom any type of chocolate will do, I can usually make shift with a locally available equivalent when they want some.

This form of brand-blindness does have it's drawbacks, unfortunately, since it also means that if any chocolate will do, my precious stash will also serve if I'm not there to defend it, lioness-like, from my husband's cupboard raids. Which is exactly what happened this weekend when my back was turned, and it was the subsequent discovery that the last two rows of the bar I had been eking out (for which read: "jealously hoarding") had disappeared into my husband's uncaring stomach, was what tipped me over the edge.

So. What have I learned from this? Oh, forget any nonsense about sense of perspective and bigger pictures. No, it's to hide my chocolate better — or at least, to put the easier-to-obtain brands at the front of the cupboard.

And what has my husband learned from this? That he can transport me to a different country can mistakenly take the house keys to work with him when I'm not home, can forget to sign important documents, and chop and change dinner and holiday arrangements at a moment's notice and I won't turn a hair, but mess with my chocolate?

Now that's a step too far …

This post first appeared on my other blog over at The Moscow Times...

It's a question of priorities...

The note from the PTO read: 'Bring us something you love for the Silent Auction'.

The Parent Teacher Organisation at the Boys' school is all-encompassing. It reaches into every corner and has a positive impact on the children's education. Over the years it has paid for a multitude of facilities, from playground improvements, to sports equipment (and I'm not talking about a couple of netballs here, rather a fully fledged ice rink that's in place for a couple of months most winters), to interactive technology for the classroom.

In addition it provides an invaluable support structure for the student's parents; for those struggling to cope with the often brutal transition from living somewhere warm and efficient to somewhere that is... not; for those who are looking for an outlet for the skills which as a trailing spouse (god, how I hate that term) they find themselves unable to use in the work-place of a land where they don't speak the language and even if they could, wouldn't be able to get a work-permit; and for those who find that removed from their comfort zone they don't even know how to begin making friends and building new networks

Amongst it's many other roles, it puts on events for the parents and teachers of the school. One of these is the Silent Auction, when parents are requested to provide goods that are packaged up into hampers of similar themed products and then auctioned off during an evening of fun and frivolity.

They're very organised in the PTO, of course; the first requests for contributions to fill the baskets came home at the middle of last term, and have been increasing in frequency (and urgency) since that point on. Each of these notes have been headed up 'Bring us something you love for the Silent Auction', followed by details of suitable items along with an explanation of themes of the different baskets that would be available. The most far-reaching of these is a range of baskets by country; US, UK, France, etc etc.

Having benefited myself from the community spirit fostered by the PTO I was keen to do my bit for this, and before Christmas gave the request to bring something I loved from home back for the baskets due consideration.

Something British was called for. Something easily transportable. Something not available here. Something - I'm afraid to say - not too expensive. And something I could bring 2 of, since contributions are accepted by class and there is heavy competition within each year group to bring the most gifts (this may be encouraged by the opportunity to win an ice-cream party if your class is top of the tables, although of course I'm sure I don't really know...).

Regular readers of this blog will not be suprised to learn that I plumped for 2 presentation boxes of miniature Green & Black's chocolate bars, since they fulfilled all of the above criteria. I brought them back after our Christmas trip to the UK, and stowed them safely out of temptation's way at the back of the kitchen cupboard.

The week just passed brought the deadline for contributions.

And did I surrender my two boxes of delicious chocolate?

Did I hell.

I meant to. And - oh ye of little faith - I hadn't eaten them, it wasn't that they were full of empty wrappers; they were still intact. It's just that as I was about to bundle them up (along with, it has to be said, a number of items from our present box that had been sitting unused since we got here last January due to the fact that we no longer know any children of the right age to give them to), I remembered an incident just before Christmas when I handed the same thing - a presentation box of Green & Black's - to the Russian mum of a friend of Boy #2's in an attempt to educate her in what real chocolate tastes like compared to - no offence intended - the rubbish you get here, only to discover a couple of days later that she had given the lot to her childrenafter trying it and not really liking it very much. For chrissake. Didn't she understand that in that case she should just have handed the rest back to me?

So the thought that I might be casting yet more pearls before swine was bothering me even before I had a conversation with a friend last week, when I voiced my misgivings and she pointed out that my precious chocolate was likely to be used to bulk up a basket and not be appreciated for the edible gold it actually is.

And that it would make a far better gift, say, for people who invited us for a meal, and who would know it's true value.

And, by the way, had I forgotten we were due at their house for dinner in a few week's time?

She's a woman after my own heart, that one...