I suppose when I started writing this blog, I decided to take the story to Russia as quickly as possible. Leaving these sorts of gaps, I left out a lot of early memories travelling. Not everyone gets to have early memories travelling, but for me some of my earliest are of traversing the world.

One of these memories was when I was five years old and we were on a trip to Kyrgyzstan. I must have really like it, because even when I was like ten, I wanted to revisit Kyrgyzstan. I brought it up often when we talked about holidays. How I wanted to see my friends there.

I don’t remember their names or much about them- because I was five and I have met a lot of people. But they must have been good friends because I have subconscious good feelings about my time in Kyrgyzstan. (I hope I don’t end up skipping around times too much on this blog. Overall, I hope to move chronologically but it’s hard to get it perfect)

While my grown-ups were talking to other grown-ups, I went to this excellent Sunday school with the other mk’s and we had lots of fun. Unfortunately for me, I inconveniently happened to be the only girl in my group. I don’t mind that so much now, somehow it gives me a sense of pride, as if I’m representing us girls. But that isn’t easy – you can’t represent them all. Sometimes its difficult to be the odd one out. My friends what’s-his-name was also in my group, so it was manageable.

It wasn’t too long before difference showed. Some boys- like these boys- play quite roughly and this intimidated me. I think they were acting out Samson from the Bible, and they were squirming around in every direction, yelling, leaping, tying up Samson. Weirding me out. Boys. (Not all boys. These boys.)

This was the perfect moment to use my all-time favourite excuse.

“I’m tired”

Just ask my parents. I still use it today… occasionally. If you’re tired the only way you can fix that is by getting some rest. It works better than “I’m hungry”, because people can “fix” that pretty easily, and then your excuse is wasted. But if you look tired enough then they will probably let you rest.

They led me to another room with a bed. It was one of those times when you fib and feel bad for it, so you try and make that fib a truth.

On picture book 10,872, I finally was tired. But that amount of laying in bed not feeling like playing with rough boys, not tired enough to get to sleep, and not feeling like just laying there or getting up… its very long. But I wouldn’t admit I had fibbed. Suppose they wanted me to play with those boys?

I’m sure they were very nice kids after all. They were just boys. And maybe acting out the Samson story would be fun for me now. But I was a little different then, very easily scared. I was scared of every second kids’ movie even if they weren’t meant to be scary, just thrilling or exciting.

Another thing we did as a group was make and paint our own aprons. I still have it today. I made a handprint on it and it seems so small now. I’ve grown so much since then.

With a dozen kids who are going to make a huge mess by designing an apron, it would be hard to find a dozen smocks for all of them. They improvised and cut a hole in the bottom of each garbage bag to make smocks.

When it was my turn for them to put one on, I stubbornly refused. Mum and Dad told me not to put my head in plastic bags, I implored. Eventually they must have been quite fed up with it. I wasn’t tired this time. Mum and Dad aren’t here right now, she replied grumpily. Either it was their sense, or me eventually giving up and wanting to go and do the activity - that convince me to let them pull the bag over my head. It turned out to be okay, I realised- my head was out, and I was breathing in a second. I don’t think I understood that a hole at the bottom of the bag would make it safe.

Actually, this might have been the time we were making tie-dye. I don’t exactly remember. Once we had painted a very colourful cloth or something one of the leaders swirled it with an iron. I don’t remember the exact details, and this probably doesn’t make much sense. But it was fascinating, and the results were no less impressive.

Either we were making the smocks or the tie-dye. I know we made both at some point on our trip, but I’ve only got the apron now.

Apart from my hand growing, my age has also changed(obviously). I was on the playground and I met a girl who was very tall. And as far as kid’s small talk goes, the first question is “What’s your name?” and the second is “How old are you?”- (which is like question one million by adult standards. Definitely not small-talk.)

Both of her answers to these two questions were shocking. (Keeping in mind I’m not perfect at quoting stuff but I’ll give it a go. That’s why teenagers say “like” a lot. Our memories aren’t the best).

“What’s your name?”- I asked.

-“Abigail” – (the other girl).

I gasp, astonished.

“How old are you?”

-“Ten”

Wait, how big is ten? She isn’t even using the rules!

“No, with your fingers!”

She holds up two opened hands neglectfully. It was a lot of fingers. We shared names, but definitely not age or experience or… height. Ten-year-olds are impressive. I’m pretty sure I told her I was five, it just doesn’t seem to fit in the conversation I tried to replicate. Oh well. You get the point.

I’ve grown a lot. But I haven’t left the country in about two and a half years. Which takes some getting used to.

Ten-year-olds don’t seem so big now. My brother is ten. People keep changing, growing. We can get used to anything. We cannot reach our best because every time we seem to have found our limit, we have grown since we last set that goal and we find we can go further, sooner or later. It’s a beauty, really.