Street life: Eat, and be merry, for soon we return to work - maybe

THREE WEEKS ago, with painted eggs and raisin cakes, the Russians celebrated Easter. Over the past four days, with equal gusto, they have stretched out the 1 May Labour holiday that Lenin bestowed upon the workers of the world.

Since Communism collapsed, Russians have rediscovered all the Christian feasts but this does not mean they have given up the revolutionary red- letter days of the old regime. Indeed, they seem to live from one prazdnik (festival) to the next. On 9 May it will be "Victory Day", again not one but four days of feasting to mark the Soviet triumph over the Nazis. Between these two May holidays, they see little point in going back to work.

Personally, I find Russian public holidays rather grim. It must have been the same in the Yorkshire mill towns when, for reasons of economy, the factories used to shut down simultaneously and all the workers were forced to take their breaks at the same time. Regimented mass enjoyment ending in a collective hangover.

Of course, Russians have more scope for entertainment now than in the Brezhnev era. Then, the workers rose early and assembled with red flags, paper flowers and balloons to march through Red Square. These days they make the first ritual trip to their dachas. The evening of 30 April is marked by a mass exodus of Lada cars and huge tailbacks on every road out of Moscow.

Anarchist that I am, I was virtually the only driver coming into the capital as, seemingly, the entire population streamed out. An unusual heat wave, which we enjoyed in late April, was just ending in a chilly downpour but I had managed to snatch my joy.

Not only had I heard the frogs sing in the ponds at Druzhba but I had swum with them. The back seat of my car was piled high with stinging nettles, which an old lady in the village had advised me to harvest for nettle soup.

Parking at Samotechny Lane, I saw my neighbour Vera hugging herself in a thick cardigan and looking glum.

"It's turned so cold," she moaned. "We were going to make shashliks [barbecued kebabs] at the dacha. We've got the meat. But we've decided not to go. We don't want to catch cold. Health is more important than pleasure."

I nodded while privately wondering at this woman, who would stroll about and eat ice cream in 10 degrees of frost, but who had lost her courage when the sun went behind a cloud. It was, after all, still 10C (50F) above freezing.

At this point, we were joined by Tanya, another neighbour whom the respectable Vera probably thinks of as vulgar but who is a good deal more fun. Tanya, an unmarried mother of three, does not have a dacha anyway. But she is capable of a spontaneous idea.

"If you've got the meat, why don't we make the shashliks here?" she suggested. Thus, it was decided we would have a yard party. Vera would provide the meat, Tanya's Azeri lodgers would bring the spicy sauces, Tanya herself might rustle up a cake and I would do the starter.

I looked at the contents of my fridge: a bag of nettles and a bottle of French white wine.

I would make the soup according to the old lady's recipe. It might be a bit eccentric, but London restaurants charge the earth for dishes made from odd plant material. And at least the wine would go down well.

Wrapped up in anoraks, we held the party under umbrellas. My nettle soup produced a nonchalant reaction. "Oh yes, my grandma used to make that," said Vera. "It's good at this time of year when you're low on vitamins."

It was the white wine that sparked the outrage. "What?" demanded Tanya's son, Lyosha. "You paid six dollars for that? You need at least 15 bottles to get you drunk. Let's open the vodka instead."

And so we drank. After a couple of hours, I left them guzzling vodka and listening to tapes of Alla Pugacheva. They still had four days of feasting to go. As for me, I could only admire their stamina.