Don't ever drink vodka with real Russians

On Friday evening, we had a few Russian folk for dinner. I finished working at about 17h00 and still needed to bath and feed the children before even contemplating dinner for a party of 10. Fortunately, my uber-capable mate Romy popped by and did what all good best friends do: shredded basil, char-grilled broccoli and drank Chardonnay.

By the time our guests had arrived, I was a trifle strung out. Ben was thankfully asleep, but Liam was adamant that he wanted to "spend time with the Russians". Admittedly, I'd also had a hugely heavy week with a family crisis that had me crying like a girl, so by Friday, I really just wanted to get shit-faced.

And shit-faced I was.

After quaffing 3 glasses of a charming Champagne, 3 glasses of Meerlust Rubicon and then 2 glasses of a delightful Pinot Noir (the name of which escapes me because at this point, I was well and truly liquored), I decided that it was high time that we all sampled the vodka that our Comrades had gifted us.

I've always been quite partial to vodka and like to think I can handle it well, but jeezez-mary-and-joseph-stalin, that Russian stuff is like jet fuel. Four shots later, I was being carried around my garden over the shoulder of an ex-marine from Texas (true story), dancing barefoot with some Dutch bloke I don't know and compulsively offering koeksisters to the Russians, who by this stage, were sitting quietly in my lounge, mute and most likely appalled.

Suffice it to say that it's Sunday night now, and I still feel like I've been poisoned by a Bolshevik.

I'm not sure how Russian/South African bilateral relations are going, but I'm almost certain they were trying to kill us. Or maybe I just drank too much.