Alesya In Wonderland by Paul Richard Scott

Author:Paul Richard Scott
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Adventure, Holiday, Humour, Ukraine, Romance, Models, Scams
Publisher: Paul Richard Scott
Published: 2015-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

I manage to beat Alesya into the shower and make a pot of green tea, plus a couple of slices of toast with strawberry jam for breakfast. She enters the lounge languidly puffing the first of that day’s chain of Lights. She watches TV and eats her breakfast, grumbling that she’s not keen on strawberry jam.

Tough Titty, I think, and chuckle, it sure beats pig fat, honey.

As we’re eating and watching the tube, the Hulk arrives to “fixes” the doorbell. He chatters in Russian to Princess for almost half an hour before departing, and Momma and Poppa Bear arrive with R2 to prove that the doorbell actually works. Momma and Poppa Bear are impressed, and so is R2, who plays with the damned thing for ten minutes.

Ding dong. Ding dong. It’s like having a fucking demented Avon Lady on the doorstep.

Alesya, a good Christian, extends my hospitality to them, and they gratefully empty my larder like a plague of locusts. There is jollity during this impromptu meal as a chair suddenly collapses under Poppa Bear’s bulk. He sprawls and rolls, red-faced on laminate flooring, as I try hard to stifle giggles, but Alesya cuts them short by leaning across the table and whispering that we’ll need to shop, again.

Yes, we do.

The visitors leave sated and bloated; bellies bulge as my slimmer wallet and empty fridge groan in protest at the Russian ram-raid. Why do they have to eat here? Isn’t there a Russian equivalent of Mackie Dee’s?

After Princess showers and applies her make-up, we march around to “Alf's”. “Alf's” is named after a cartoon character, but I’m starting to see the totally surreal nature of my adventure. We shop, stock up on groceries, take a leisurely stroll in the village to pass the day pleasantly with more sightseeing. We call in at the place where Alesya works; a beauty products outlet, glittering with chrome and glass, crappy jewellery and stench of cheap perfume.

And I thought R2 was the Avon lady?

I’m introduced to her manager, who makes a nice refreshing cup of green tea, which I think tastes like weasel piss, although I’ve never actually drunk it, I imagine that this is what weasel piss tastes like. The woman is a squat, bow-legged individual, but she likes me, smothering me in hugs and kisses as we’re saying farewell, before a walk along Ushakova to home.

Alesya cooks supper, forcing me to eat plate after plate of delicious ethnic cuisine because, she intones in all sincerity, I’m a big man and need to eat plenty. This defies logic; the more I eat, the bigger I’ll become and thus need to eat more. I immediately point out the obvious flaw in her deductive reasoning, but Princess continues wafting cigarette smoke toward me, remains glued to the TV, wags a dismissive finger at my plate and says,

‘Shush. Eat, honey, eat.’

Honey shuts up and eats.

Then it’s time for Alesya’s second shower of the day, kiosk time for me, with an accompanying list of stuff to pick up along with our usual amount of beer.

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