It’s Sunday the 18th of March, sometime between 2 and 3am. I'm standing with Amy at the bar in Cherdak on Kuznetsky Most ordering Mojitos. We pay with a gold credit card that belongs to a none-too-shabby looking Swiss surgeon and return to the dance floor. This is the culmination of an enjoyable, and certainly memorable 8 or so hours of cake, champagne, karaoke and flowers in celebration of my 25th birthday. I should be pretty happy at this point. So why, half an hour later while we're waiting for the next round, when Amy removes my glasses and refuses to give them back because I 'look cuter without them' do I flip-out, snatch them back and storm out of the club into a gypsy cab and home?
Of course a certain amount of alcohol was behind that outburst, but thinking about it there was something not quite right about that situation. Maybe it was the superficial atmosphere in that bar, the small grey tube dress I was wearing that made me feel a little uncomfortable, my growing exasperation at my friends very well-meaning attempts to help me pull, or the fact that I had less than a week to find a new place to live before my landlady kicked me out. Or perhaps it was part of what my Russian friends keep referring to as Winter Depression.