I have always wanted to go to Russia. I'm not sure this is a rational longing.

I love the idea of winter, especially the intense cold part of it. Here in England, summer is unpleasant, and so is winter, but feebly so. The snow (which appears maybe once or twice a year) is mushy and grey. Melts before it hits the tarmac.

The thought of wrapped up people in coats and scalves and woolly hats appeals to me. Maybe it is the longing for a little less flesh on display. People being cosy inside their many layers. Being warm on the inside. Not daring to take hand from glove to press the traffic light button. Think: the album cover of Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin'. That's why I like winter.

That and the notion of coming inside from the cold, to sit by a "real fire" and sip hot chocolate. With a book. My idea of heaven.

So. Russia is cold. Very very. The lowest temperature last winter was minus 40 degrees celsius. Maybe a tad too cold, but at least this means proper, hardcore snow.

But what has clinched it for me? Apparently "underwear freezes" in Russia. I'd go just to experience my underwear freeze. Really.