photo of the month

This could be many places in Russia, one of a million courtyards between the blocks of flats - buildings which have a certain uniformity to them.



When I first arrived in Russia, I was struck by a sense that so much looked the same with the identikit apartment blocks and I was wondering how I'd ever get to find my way around with such a lack of distinguishing features. Eventually I managed. As I grew braver, I stopped walking along the roads, which were based on a grid, at least in Surgut anyway, and opted for shortcuts across the open spaces between buildings.

Sometimes within a giant square, this led to even more parallel blocks of flats, separated by narrow roads decaying under the strain of use, Siberians winters and their inherent poor quality. Other times, I'd make my way across only to find that the chink of light in the diagonally opposite corner offered no escape route or time-saving benefits and was but large enough for a cat or cockroach.

The yards shared so many of the same elements: little, low railings made from faded metal tubing inexplicably at shin-height - seemingly not high enough to prevent the dash for freedom of a fleeing toddler yet somehow inconveniently high enough to force you to step over it; a climbing frame made from the same faded metal as the railings but usually slightly rustier and consequently more of an impending health and safety issue; other, similar death traps present for children's entertainment, sometimes including a large covered one where chavs drink beer, smoke, spit and harass anything that moves on two, four, six or eight legs; a washing line; trees; a sandpit - obviously a great idea in Siberia and when the sand wasn't buried under snow, the cat shit was buried under the sand; a multi-purpose sports court where teenagers took basketball or 5-a-side breaks between smoking; a shop which made sure than I never ran out of alcohol, bread and sausage no matter what time of day; and plenty of benches, where grannies sat and shared news/ gossip and passed judgment on passers-by based on a 1960s Soviet moral code.

These courtyards had the paradox of sharing so many features yet the selection of which ones and their precise configuration gave them a unique feel in often standardised surrounds. In fact, the only one that could be guaranteed was the grannies flicking between smiling and scowling.

"No time to explain: you're a prostitute"