There were lots of sandpits in the area where we were allowed to play. One in particular was on the way to the ice cream store. The sand constantly needed replacing as kids emptied it out over the sides. I suppose it also needed rebuilding as the sand swallowed the edges. Over the years, a hill developed in the place where the sandpit stands. You can’t dig to the bottom of it, the sand gets wetter, then stiffer, then mixed with dirt and pebbles. But the bottom is out of reach. I wonder what it will be like there once I return, whether they’ll have a community-famous Mt Sand, or whether someone will set their minds to it and get rid of the sand and probably the buried sandboxes underneath, leaving a flat space, and make a fresh sandpit filled with fresh sand. It’s the sort of the thing Australian culture sees the purpose in, but Russian culture doesn’t.

Near the sandpit were those little styrofoam balls hidden in the grass that I used to think insects played with – who knows, maybe they do. Next to that were the swings which I sang from, and the tree which I always climbed – it had such strong arms, starting low and reaching high. If the branches were fingers there were plenty of miniature palms to rest in.

Another sandpit was the one out the back, past the fir trees, past the ones you jump from -well I did anyway -, past the laundry racks where you beat the dust out of carpets. The area was surrounded by черемуха trees, and their little berries which at first taste chalky and bitter, but the more you have them, the sweeter they become. That’s what my Russian uncle Kolya said. No, those were the red ones. Never mix them up. Those are red on the inside; they are only good for birds.  The good ones are green on the inside. Past the laundry was another playground, with swings the daredevils swung 360 degrees on – not me. There was a car park next to the playground - out the front of where Arseniy lived. There were tons of concrete tiles for drawing with chalk on, and a sandpit with hunks of clay.  There’s a glorious field of dandelions near it. Hundreds of them, in the right season.

I used to dig deeply in this sandpit, searching for pieces of clay. I found value in them that Dad didn’t understand, and he got frustrated when I kept the clay inside the house. One time I was playing in the sandpit, with my brother and maybe my sister – it was probably just my brother at the time, since he kept bugging me to play with him. This old guy, who said he was Masha’s grandfather, seemed fascinated that I was from Australia. As naïve as I was, this seemed a bit odd, even though I told myself it couldn’t be that strange. He was Masha’s grandfather after all. Later on, I realised that this was my classmate’s grandpa, I’m not sure why this didn’t register right off the top. He said that his granddaughter had been telling him about this girl in her calls who was from Australia, which seemed so interesting to him, because there aren’t many Australians in Russia.

And he kept wanting to chat with me. I’m’ not sure what his intentions were, whether he actually wanted to find out more about Australia and this peculiar girl in his granddaughter’s class, or something else, but I did wish he would leave me along to play in the sandpit and stop talking and showing me art, since I’d told him I like art.

Dad came along soon enough, and told me we were leaving. I don’t remember him being angry this time, just shocked – thought I won’t rule out him being angry, and he would have had a good reason. I didn’t think the old man was being creepy, just more annoying. Did I feel uncomfortable? Well yes, but I kept telling myself that I was being unreasonable, since grown-ups, it seemed, tended to know best.

Dad put his arm around my shoulder, and led me home. He seemed to think the old man was very bad and had stepped over the line, and kept asking if the old man had said anything that seemed out of place. He explained to me carefully that adults should not be trying to make friends with kids, but with the kid’s parents if they must. I didn’t quite understand this at first, but it makes an awful lot of sense now. I kept protesting that he said he was Masha’s grandpa, but Dad didn’t seme to care. It didn’t matter to Dad, the old man shouldn’t have said as much has he did.

Dad kept saying, Aunty Lisette could be making friends with the man, because she is an adult, and kids should make friends with kids, and adults with adults. It’s very true. Or maybe he hadn’t used my aunty as an example, and I was just recalling this when I saw my aunty chatting to some other old person on a bench outside.

Well I don’t remember seeing that man again, but he taught me a lesson.

So that when I was in Tynda, and there were two ladies walking around the playground saying they would like us to come home with them - they had toys, and geese, I knew they were downright lying. I was 11 then so not quite as young, and they gave up on trying to convince me and teying to convince other kids, so I kept telling them to go away, or leading the kids away, I don’t really remember. They didn’t look creepy or anything like an 11-year-old would expect, but I didn’t need that waring. I felt responsible for the younger kids on the playground because I was one of the oldest playing outside.

Now that I think about it, I probably should have told my parents so they could get the ladies off the playground. I told Mum later on, who for my sake kept her cool and said I’d done the right thing.

Another time my friends Nastya, or Stacy in English, invited me to come home with her in her Mum’s car because there were rumours that people were trying kidnap girls around my age. I wasn’t sure whether to believe her, but Mum had told me not to go in anyone’s car without Mum’s permission, so I walked home myself. I was fine. Who knows, maybe the rumours were just spread to make people paranoid.

I told mum, and she said I’d done the right thing again. I found this relief because it didn’t seem quite as obvious to me then. I feel like the older I get, the more right and wrong look like each other. Being safe is hard work.