Vladimir's Tongue

Under the watchful gaze of my laptop's webcam I wonder if the computer vision software might detect something Russian in my facial features. I lick my beetroot-stained fingers and remember how much the beetroot I just diced resembled my Russian grandmother's nose.

Its sweet and earthy flavours fill my mouth as it makes sounds that my ears don’t understand. It feels as if the Russian president’s tongue has taken root in my mouth, forcing me to define who I am: Must I either listen to techno music. sipping vodka as I wear sports pants and look deprived in a macho way? Or embrace a view of myself as the soft and spineless offspring of a decadent and self-indulgent Scandinavian society?