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the main nationalities were Kazakhs and Russians. On the right was the …
    The faces of the tourists were beginning to look blank. Desmond Withenshaw tried to dam the battering of Ludmilla Stepanovna’s voice and inexhaustible supply of facts. ‘Er – excuse me, but isn’t that a mosque?’
    Ludmilla Stepanovna’s eyes narrowed. Bozhi moi, but there was one in every group! ‘Is Mussulman temple,’ she agreed indifferently. ‘Is not important.’
    â€˜Is it open for worship?’
    Ludmilla Stepanovna bared her teeth. ‘I do not know. On left is town market. Very picturesque.’
    Desmond Withenshaw slumped back in his seat. ‘Isn’t it funny,’ he remarked to his wife in a loud voice, ‘how very up-tight they always get when you ask them anything even remotely connected with religion? Guilty conscience, do you suppose?’
    â€˜Yonder is house of former military governors,’ said Ludmilla Stepanovna, trying hard to think how best she might wreak vengeance on this revolting and bearded hooligan. ‘Nowadays, is town hall.’ The driver pulled the minibus into the side of the road and stopped. ‘I now tell you amusing anecdote. In Czarist times was governor of town called Kolpakovsky. He was very fond of trees …’
    â€˜Oh, well,’ sniggered Tony Lewcock, ‘it takes all sorts!’
    â€˜â€¦ and paid everybody who planted a tree in the town ten copecks.’ Ludmilla Stepanovna paused dramatically before delivering the punch-line. ‘And ordered all who cut one down to be flogged in public by soldiers!’
    It is a well-known fact that the English are a reserved and humourless lot but Ludmilla Stepanovna was still bitterly disappointed by the lack of response. The faces that were raised to hers were insultingly uncomprehending. She took it out on the driver, ordering him to drive on by means of a grammatical construction which is normally only addressed to one’s intimate acquaintance and dogs.
    The driver retaliated by letting in his clutch so fiercely that half the Albatrossers found themselves rolling in the aisle. Before they had time to collect themselves, the brakes were slammed on.
    Ludmilla Stepanovna explored her bruises grimly and then continued with her commentary to an audience that was now totally indifferent. This time she exhorted them a admire a church – the Cathedral church. Mr Withenshaw was still scrabbling round on the floor for the contents of his wife’s handbag and offered no comment. The church, Ludmilla Stepanovna said, was built of wood and had been constructed at the beginning of the twentieth century without the use of a single iron nail.
    The Albatrossers received this intelligence stoically.
    â€˜Is now principal museum of Kazakhstan Republic. We visit. All will now descend. Hurry, please!’
    In the confusion and turmoil that inevitably accompanies any move made by any bunch of tourists, the Hon. Con managed to catch hold of Miss Clough-Cooper and draw her to one side. ‘You and me must have a little talk.’
    Miss Clough-Cooper tried unobtrusively to pull away from the Hon. Con’s unyielding grasp. ‘Yes, yes … Of course. Er – this evening, perhaps?’
    â€˜Speed,’ observed the Hon. Con, looking owlish, ‘is of the essence. How about now? You’re not really interested in trailing round this soppy old museum, are you?’
    â€˜Well …’
    â€˜Oh, blimey!’ The Hon. Con unconsciously tightened her grip on Miss Clough-Cooper’s arm. ‘What’s happening now?’
    The little group of Albatrossers, which had just about struggled as far as the church door, milled about aimlessly for a few seconds and then began to straggle back crossly down the path. Ludmilla Stepanovna snapped apologetically at their heels.
    Miss Jones trotted up to report, happy to drive a wedge between the Hon. Con and Miss