RUSSIANS and WORRY

Richard Bloss comes to the conclusion that Russians worry about everything.

I love worrying. Honestly I do. I have this theory that goes something like: ‘If I'm not worrying, then I'm obviously missing something seriously tricky that if I wasn't so sure of myself, I would have recognised and thus prevented all sorts of disasters that will now hit me when I am least expecting it’.

You know the feeling, and I'm not alone, am I? It’s a bit like my fear of flying. If this flight is as smooth as smooth - then for sure the next one will be a roller coaster from hell. And if Life is really a bitch, then…well! I told you so, huh!!!

The fact is, you and I are in serious psychological trouble. And it's not like "worry" is some sort of 21st century angst that nobody ever felt in those rose coloured "good old days". It's just that nowadays, we are more commercial, more touchy feely about it. If Descartes had said "I worry, therefore I am ", you can bet your last glass of champagne that by now, he would have had a PR Agent, a regular column in Psychologies magazine, and an Editorial in "good housekeeping".

My question though, is not about worry itself. It's human nature. We all do it. What worries me, so to say, is WHY we do it at all, after all, we are not going to live longer worrying if our salary gets paid on time or whether he or she likes us, fancies us, - whatever - in fact quite the reverse. Worry is the dividend paid to disaster, before it is due. No, the reason why Russians worry about everything, far more than the rest of us - is simply that you have twice as much as the rest of us, to worry about.

How so?

Because, if you are reading this discussion piece from somewhere inside the M25, then as a first step - unlike your colleagues back home - you are living in the land of No Revolutions! The last time we had one here in the UK was so many centuries ago and it didn't work then, so there's no reason why it will work in the future. The fact is, we just don't have or "get" the whole political thing. We regard our politicians as an unfortunate inconvenience that get in the way of improving our individual lives, and our level of contempt bordering on boredom is reflected in the fact that we always know when our politicians are lying to us: it’s whenever they open their mouths!

Alas it is not so simple in your part of the world. At least we can get rid of ours every few years. You, unfortunately, are stuck with yours for somewhat longer, and what this means is, there is this feeling by just about everybody that I talked to, that the "good things" in life have passed them by, and there is nothing they can do about it. And while we too have our flashpoints of civil disorder, yours are more deeply seated. People seize opportunities purely for their own good with no thought for their neighbours, which explains why hotels in Donetsk are charging over £1,000 sterling per night for a one-star hotel room during the football in a few months time:

"Let's face it" says the tourist guy, " who the hell will actually want to come back here!"

Unless of course you already have the "Good Things", in which case life is even worse. Because, if you ever get to the point of asking yourself why you ever moved to London in the first place, then the next question is - what on earth do I do now? I mean, there are only so many art galleries you can visit, after all.

What this means for you, is that you simply want more "good things" and to have more of whatever it is that you already have got. It avoids facing up to difficult questions. I’m quite sure that if Napoleon had come across a few Brits on his way to Moscow, we would have sat down with a glass of Baileys and sorted out a compromise deal exchanging Belarus for a timeshare in Beauvais or Le Touquet!

Ultimately, despite the doom and gloom headlines in all of our newspapers, if Brits aren't as worried as perhaps we are made out to be, it's probably because we have done this all before, seen our empires rise and fall, seen our banks fall and continue to fall, perhaps we've grown used to it.

But then again, so have you.

The girl is rushing to the veterinary office, the little dog in her arms, and he is sick. And in a scene that could be anywhere in suburban London, the vet sorts out the little dog, the girl is all smiles. Except that this is Kyiv and the girl looks at me when I ask why she has done this. After all... This is not her dog.

"Well, he is a stray and he would have died", she replies.

Maybe some things are universal after all. Hmmm....now why should that be?