I actually felt rather good about that. Simple, purposive, easily-achieved tasks give a great deal of satisfaction, especially if a small but noticeable amount of effort is required to do them well. I developed a style, a panache almost; wide, sweeping motions with the hard blade of my yellow scraper, then a flip of the wrist to deploy the rubber strip and remove the snowy detritus. I had to do this rather more seriously a couple of times in Park City, Utah, when I was at the Sundance Film Festival and my rented motor was buried in six foot of fresh powder. That time, of course, I used a cardboard box as a shovel. I have a slight love-affair with Utah. It’s somehow a special place.

I’d got about two thirds of the way through the process this morning when I realised I was handily de-icing my neighbour’s car.

Oops.

However, having practiced on his lean, green ecomachine, I was able to finish ours in short order and move it to a new and more appropriate spot, just around the corner from the front door. I awarded myself a five point eight for technical merit and a five point seven for speed. Even the Russian  Judge was unable to fault my stylistic performance, so I scored a full six there.

Speaking of Russians… Moscow.

Wow, where to start? Uhhhh… some of the questions from the floor:

Q: I have heard that the future of Britain is Islam. What would you say to this, please?

A: [Holy crap! We're discussing Islam now? And in Moscow? I'm a novelist, dude, I'm not David Milliband. Yowch...] Well, I think that’s unlikely, but it’s certainly true that we need to understand and work with our Muslim population in the UK, because we’re allowing ourselves to marginalise them and that isn’t good. The future is all of us. [Niiiice, Harkaway, you sound, like, totally clichéd...]

Q: Your book is featuring the apocalypse. Many things are coming to an end. The world, also. Please – in 2012 many calendars and cultures believe that we will also experience apocalyptic event. What is your opinion?

A: [Holy crap! Apocalypsism? Great. Whom shall I offend today?] Well, I’m an optimist. It’s true that The Gone-Away World does have several moments which seem like the absolute end. But in fact, it’s not one of these stories of destruction and privation. It’s not about a scarred, sad population grubbing in the dust. It’s actually about the traumatic recreation of the world, over and over again. It even has a happy ending. So I like to think we will, too. And the advantage of this position is that if I am wrong, no one here will ever know. [Hoo, boy. Laugh-line. Wait for it... Viktor the amazing translation expert is giving it his all... yes! YES! They thought that was funny. Yay!]

Q: Please, which is your favourite of the great Russian Novelists? Do you feel literary connection to one of them?

A: [Holy CRAP! I'm so damn ignorant by Russian standards. Aiee...] Well, I love Lermontov. I think Hero of Our Time is a splendid book, and I think it’s fascinating to read it now and to see whether Pechorin is still as wicked as he obviously appeared to the contemporary reader. [Crap! Is he supposed to appear wicked or is the ironic title itself an irony? Holy crap...]

And so on.

Essentially, Russian intellectual thinking intimidates me a little. They have no fear of big questions. You’re having a pee and the guy next to you leans over and asks what the meaning of life is in your opinion, and he will stand there and discuss that with his fly open long after the actual biological necessity is concluded for both of you. They’re amazing. I love it there, but it’s like drinking squash without water. You can’t do it forever. On the other hand, it’s stunning how quickly you can get seduced by it.

I haven’t talked about Bykov yet. He’s an extraordinary man…

Clare and I got off the plane at Domodedovo and were taken directly (via ScaryAlarmingTaxi) to a small café with a giant literary heritage. Apparently it has essentially always been a place for writers to drink and get in trouble, except during the Stalin times, when it was a library where, somehow, taking a book out could induce a state of euphoria almost indistinguishable from drunkenness.

And there, at a corner table in this 60s-looking, ply-panel room, was a huge man in a swirly pale blue shirt. He was drinking beer and vodka and eating something meaty from an oval plate.

“Miiiiister Harkaway! You are here! I, I, I am Bykov!”

“Dmitry Bykov! I am Harkaway”

“Yes! And I am Bykov. Your wife is beautiful. I have read your book. In it the world comes to an end in most remarkable way. Do you think this will happen? I also. I think we will deserve it. You want beer or vodka? I have both. Beer and vodka. Also liver. You think the world will not end? You are optimist! For my optimistic English friend, beer and vodka!”

And ten minutes later we were raising toasts to being doomed or not being doomed, and a guy from the Conservatoire was singing old blues numbers and stamping and Bykov was translating the broken English into his own version of the lyrics.

I cannot begin to tell you how much fun this was, or the more interesting things we talked about. I can only say it was one of the great evenings. And you need to understand, Bykov edits two magazines, presents a radio show (two?) and some TV. He is a novelist and a poet. This guy does more with his life in an afternoon, after a night without boundaries, than most people manage in a week. He’s coming to London in April, I think. I do not expect the city to look the same in May.

Anyway… I need breakfast. More anon.