The middle of the night – twenty past midnight, to be exact - but look out of the window and it’s mid afternoon. The sun is shining bright, people strolling through the streets. You know – nonchalantly going about their day to day business. The world is upside down: topsy turvy. I am Alice and I have stepped through the looking glass. And these are the Russian white nights, when the sun seemingly never sets.  Last week I travelled to Russia. Two nights in Moscow – just long enough to walk through Red Square, take in the Kremlin, indulge in a bowl of chilled summer borsch and cheer from the stalls at The Bolshoi. Then on and up north – across the flat lands of the Russian countryside – to St Petersburg. By train – all very Anna Karenina. Minus the luxuriant furs.

They call St Petersburg the Venice of the North. Although I’m not all too sure why. Like Venice it is a magnificent city. But beyond that - Venice is a small, sleepy town, where everyone knows everyone and the background hum of motorboats is comforting and familiar. St Petersburg, on the other hand, is a city – in the truest sense of the word. It is dramatic. The palaces, the boulevards, the rush of cars, the fading gold and the black dirt. The Metro stations are ballrooms with malachite pillars and splendid statues – grand enough to host a party for a thousand. The markets – all white pillars and dusty floors – sell caviar by the kilo. Blinding bright white light, cold wind, black bread and honey cake – oh, the heavenly honey cake! -, shimmering gold leaf, ostentatiously vaulted ceilings and garden follies – is St Petersburg. Fountains, semiprecious stones and babushkas – these are my memories of a foreign and electrifying city. My memories – of the other side of the looking glass.