How it is done in Kyiv

More or less in her own words, this is what my very attractive and stylish friend T. told me today.

'Ektually I'm still feeling really pissed off over the f----ing police yesterday. I was driving down Khreshchatik and I pulled up at a pedestrian crossing [Editor's note: A few nice Ukrainian drivers, like T., actually do this from time to time]. Then I heard sirens and saw lights flashing, it was one of the presidential police escort cars with some chicken-shit minister. So I couldn't move out the way without killing a few pedestrians, so they had to wait until they had crossed. Then at the next traffic lights they pulled alongside of me, made me stop, and said 'We're confiscating your car [Editor's note: a large luxury 4x4] and your licence, you're not fit to drive'.

'So I said to them ,'What is this, you wanted me to run over people to let you through? OK you have a choice. I have a $120,000 car here, the sort you'd like and will never have in a million years, and that's why you stop me. OK so you can take my car and licence and within two days you will all be fired. I know all the right people - believe me, if I have car like this I can spare $5,000 to get you all fixed. Or, you can give me back my documents and f--- off'.

'So they thought they would play tough, they were making phone calls and they wouldn't give way and I wouldn't give way. After an hour the local police chief comes up, I know him very well. He says 'Look, T., the presidential police are bastards, I don't have authority over them'. I told him how I had threatened these assholes, I gave him $100 and said, look, tell them I mean what I say, and get me my documents back. So he did - two f----ing hours it wasted of my time.

'So this morning I was talking to [and she named a very influential person] and he was laughing and saying 'But T., why didn't you just phone me?' And I told him 'Look, I'm a big girl now, if I can't fix stupid things like this myself, I might as well give up on everything'. Ektually it made me even angrier than those f---ing police.'

Fantastic

Simply the greatest live performance I have ever heard of Berlioz's 'Symphonie Fantastique' at the Kiev Philharmonia this evening. Not only that, but it was preceded by a lip-smacking version of his 'Harold in Italy', with the Israeli violist, Avri Levitan. The National Academic Symphony Orchestra under Mikola Dyadyura gave superb accounts of these masterworks, greatly assisted by the acoustics of the hall. The neo-classic Philharmonia building was originally a gentleman's club. The auditorium seats maybe four or five hundred (it was packed), and its sound is particularly clean and pure. So when you get a large orchestra giving its all, you are in the thick of it. These were lurid performances, but deliberately so - Berlioz would have loved them, I am sure - the almost over-ripe romanticism risked conjuring up some of the more bizarre canvasses of Antoine Wiertz, but at the same time Dyadyura had calculated every sound and gear-change and his players responded superbly. I liked the touch of having the harps either side of the orchestra up front (see picture), which swept us into the ballroom scene - an effect mirrored in the Witches' Sabbath when we had two sets of tubular bells up in the gallery, taking the 'Dies Irae' alternately. Cunningly, a virtue was thus even made of the limited size of the Philharmonia stage. 10+ out of 10.

Break for the border

For the past week or so I have been in my hideout in Slovakia, which I reached from Kyiv by a tiresome combination of very slow overnight train (to Uzhorod), bus , and more (slow) trains. To mitigate this gruelling sequence on my return, Mrs. S. drove me to the Slovak/Ukrainian border. Uzhorod (whose church is pictured left), and my train, were five minutes drive from the actual crossing. However, had we crossed in the car, whilst the Slovak/Ukraine process is fairly prompt, Mrs. S. would have had to wait five hours or more on the way out again, due to the studied sloth of the Ukrainian customs officers.

I thus resolved, as I had only light hand-luggage, to walk across the border, counting on finding a taxi or thumbing a lift at the other side.

It was not to be. As I approached the Slovak passport control, a lady official approached with a horrified look. No-one was allowed to cross the border on foot. Why? The lady couldn't say - it used to be possible but was no longer so; and that was all we could get out of her. Another officer suggested, off the record, that I seek a lift with a vehicle in transit. First to appear was a Czech van, full to the gills with assorted junk, and thus with no room for me. Next appeared a black Ukrainian Volga whose driver and passenger beckoned me in almost before I had stuck out my thumb. Soon were presenting ourselves before the scandalised lady official who however could scarcely deny the validity of my British passport.

The passport however aroused more interest at the Ukrainian check-point. Presumbably they don't get many Brits coming through. My Ukrainian hosts kindly waited around twidding their thumbs whilst my passport was scrutinised with fluorescent lights and magnifying glasses, and prompted a long telephone call to HQ. Then inevitably I was summoned to an inner lair for close questioning. What was I doing in in Ukraine? Why had I been in Slovakia? How come I spoke Russian? Were did I live in London? How many children did I have? Why did my passport have stamps for Georgia (the republic, not the state)? I jovially gave lengthy and tedious answers, including showing photos of my three grandchildren, till they became bored and sent me back to the car. I rewarded my driver at the station with a 100 hrivnia (£8) note, and the remainder of my journey was uneventful.

But I will write to one of my Euro MPs (the very nice Charles Tannock) to ask why I can't walk out of the EU.

Rejected

The office where I work is located in a block owned by a State-allied gas corporation. Yet whilst two such organisations have been raided by State Security over the past few days, no-one has even waved a toy pistol in our foyer. I feel vaguely affronted - surely our lads were at least as innovative and enterprising as those in Naftogaz?

Some local inhabitants

 

Seen above the entrance to a courtyard in Yaroslaviv Val.

Shopping

An inevitable consequence of the arrival of Mrs. S. is my realization of how incompetent I am at organising a household, even if I am the only inhabitant of same. Thus the weekend saw several swoops on the Kyiv TSUM ('Central Universal Store') as a consequence of which I now know the Ukrainian for 'clingfilm','adhesive hooks', 'cushion covers', etc. A lot of money went into the pockets of the ladies running stalls in the amazing Bessarabsky Market, who obviously treble their prices as soon as they see anyone from Western Europe approaching. But the smoked fish, raisin cheesecake, aubergine salad and sheep's cheese were all absolutely top quality, albeit a British Tradings Standards Officer might quail to see the conditions in which they are sold.

The stallholders of Kyiv are by the way up in arms against the City Mayor, who, in an attempt to get control of all the city's kiosks, has torn up existing lease agreements and attempted to raise rents tenfold. The excuse - one of the weakest I have ever heard from a politician (and I have heard many) - is that he wants the town cleaned up before the Football Championships of 2012. The reality is probably that this is a desperate attempt to beef up the City budget. Following stormy demonstrations, he appears to have backed down for the present.