I cross the river at Krymsky Bridge and enter the gates of the fairground. It’s one of those places where you don’t pay to get in, and just buy tokens for the rides. I listen to the rattle of the ancient rollercoaster and the shrieks from the people riding it, and decide to give it a miss. There is something very out of control about rollercoasters, and I’ll never understand why people go on them. I’d rather be in charge of my own adrenaline surges, with much more thrilling activities. What happened in Irkutsk has awakened something in me that I’d thought was safely buried away. I’m like a vampire – lain dormant for years until the smell of blood has me wanting more. Of course I like to try and convince myself that all the things that have happened to me over the years have been accidents, but in an occasional moment of honesty, I recognise what they really are. What I really am. I take a swig of the vodka and realise that I’ve nearly finished the whole bottle, and I can’t help but laugh. What must I look like, to others? Bedraggled hair from the run, out-of-place clothing, swaying slightly from the alcohol – laughing to myself in a park.

Mothers with children swerve to avoid me, throwing me filthy looks. A couple of men leer at me in that way I’ve noticed here many times now – they don’t care if I’m drunk, if I stink of booze and sweat. If I’m vulnerable. They’ll fuck me if I ask them to. What they don’t realise is that I don’t actually care about fucking them, or talking to them, or anything else. What they don’t realise is that I am looking for something that none of them can give me.

A traitorous tear slides down my cheek, and I wipe it angrily away, then I toss the vodka bottle into a bin and ignore the staring children and the snotty mums, and head over to a row of colourful stalls on the other side of the park.

By the time I get there, I’ve pushed the tears and the regrets back into their box, and I’m feeling a bit brighter. I stop to look at the items that have been arranged neatly in rows, according to height. Babushka dolls – some out on display as the full set of seven, the rest of them with their interlocking babies safely stored inside. They are painted in every colour under the sun, with different faces, different styles of dress. There are even ‘novelty’ ones, with faces of celebrities and politicians.