from russia with ambivalence

There is a tide in the affairs of men which when taken at the Rooskie leads on to great things.
Coffee with the Russian bombshell in Mr Starbucks finest cafe on Dame Street.
We are posited in the window seat.
The headlights of evening traffic sweep past outside.
Around us Dublin cacaphones into night.
I am trying to persuade her that Vladimir Putin is bringing back the Soviet Union.
She is having none of it.
"James," she says sweetly, "you're so naive. There's no such thing as democracy. You'll find that in every country on earth, there's about ten people who are effectively in charge of everything, regardless of the election process. There's no real difference between any system of government."
"I think you'll find that there is," sez I brilliantly. "You'd notice pretty quick if you were living under Taliban rule. Or in Zimbabwe. Or in Burmah. Or in any of the hellhole Arab States."
"Oh come on," she shot back, "haven't you read Michael Moore?"
I strode to the door and vomited briefly into the street at the mention of the name.
I'm telling you folks, saying Michael Moore to me is like saying Jahbulon to a freemason.
We don't take too kindly to it.
When I returned she was looking quizzical and adorable in equal measure.
She was like one of those Russian young ones that always seem to show up in James Bond films murmuring things like: "Good evenink Meesthair Bont," before indulging in a bout of gratuitous love making and stealing a coding device.
The Russian bombshell pulled at a stray tendril of blonde hair.
Our eyes locked.
Women who play with their hair are very dangerous.
They'll steal your coding device soon as look at you.
"If Russia had won the Cold War you'd have made slaves of all of us," I told her softly.
My statement caused no interruption to her hair playing or to her unfathomably exquisite stare.
"We might have made slaves of you," she grinned, "but think of the fun you'd have had."