Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

Strolls by the Volkhov. The Linguaphone Course. St. Sofia. Re-reading
                                                                                                    Nabokov.
After four weeks in that room in Novgorod, I'd almost had enough of it.
I was pleased to see anyone, even if the first time he knocked on my door
in his flat cap he did look like Alan Ball (which should have been a warning).

"I'd say you're a typical type," he said. "You've an Oxford background. Yes?
Proficient oarsman, I bet; nice clothes you're wearing; bit of a ladies' man -
                                                                                                      No?
Am I right? A chip of the old block?" Etcetera.  Well it ended up with him
                                                                                                     giving me
his mobile phone to use (though initially I hadn't the foggiest whom to
                                                                                                      contact).

He introduced me to all his circle; of course, he was a part of the Russian
                                                                                                     mafia.
So I gave up the language course; went demotic; got drunk most nights;
                                                                                          felt positively
ex-pat. Pretty sure I was going to be able to say these had been the best
                                                                                              days of my life.
Then one night Ivan tells me I need a bodyguard. At first, I think he is
                                                                                       joking and shrug:

"But with such friends…?" I reply. "No," he says, "You do not understand.
                                                                                                    What if
you got run over, or someone breaks your legs, or you get shot?" And he
                                                                                                       put a gun
down, very gently, on the table - like a playing card. And even though it
                                                                                                    looked like
a Hopalong Cassidy Colt, it was frightening all the same. He wanted $300
                                                                                                  a month.

I agree to a $500 once-off payment. But I tell him I have to go to Moscow
                                                                                         to collect it.
So I book the flight by plastic - that night. Had to pay business class. I pack
                                                                                               my bags
in the dark; get the taxi driver to avoid the main streets. (I'm crouched
                                                                                down in the back.)
I don't haggle over the bribe for the visa official. Just make the plane...

Until we landed
         at Gatwick,
                      I never looked round once.
                                   Nothing will ever take away my love of the language.