Shostakovich is on the radio.

I'm imagining myself wearing an ushanka, thick coat, and worn boots, trudging through the Caucasus with a rifle slung over my shoulder.

Or maybe it's pre-revolution, with Romanoff-ian furs, woollen blankets and horse-drawn sleighs.

Either way, it sounds like Russia. All the same slow snow, black humour, hardened grandeur tempered with sadness.