The first time I travelled to Moscow, nearly half a century ago, was to collect some royalties. I wrote about that visit here. It cost me a fair amount of money because I had to pay for

travel, food and accommodation. The second trip was rather different: the journey was an official one. I was sent by the British Council, which arranged trips for scientists to and from the

Soviet Union.  It was still the 1970s, not long after Mrs Thatcher’s tough 1976 speech on Soviet imperialism, which earned her the epithet of “Iron Lady” from the Russian press. She was not

yet Prime Minister, but even as Leader of the Opposition she gained Moscow’s attention. This time I did not have to pay for anything. I got accommodation in a vast hotel called

Russian expert on electromagnetic theory. I took a taxi to his laboratory. It turned out not to be a laboratory at all. There were no instruments of any kind. The building was only two

stories high. It looked like a pre-revolutionary private house, designed for the use of one single family, but must have been adapted for the use of a few privileged scientists. Professor X

and I got on very well. His English was flawless. His accent was possibly even worse than mine, but that did not bother either of us. There was only one difficulty. He was hard of hearing

and apparently the Russians had not as yet invented the hearing aid. He had an ear trumpet, but that did not help much. There was no alternative but to shout.  I got back to the hotel, not

only completely exhausted but with vocal cords absolutely shattered. I knew from past experience that what I needed was milk and honey. To be precise, honey dissolved in hot milk that would

gently heal my damaged throat. The “dezhurnaya” (the woman who sat behind a desk on every floor in all Soviet hotels, and whose main job was to watch everybody, although occasionally she

might turn her energies to sorting out problems) told me that milk was not available in the hotel.  Another lady, overhearing my problem, took pity on me. She was in Moscow accompanying her

husband to some kind of conference. They were from an obscure city in the Urals. She was an English teacher in a secondary school. Alas, she did not know where one could find honey but she

vowed to get milk for me. Indeed, she reappeared within an hour with a bottle of milk in her hand. In addition, she managed to get privileged access to the kitchen to warm up the milk.  Hot

milk without honey was not the same but was better than nothing. I was grateful. I drank my hot milk in her company at a long wooden table in the deserted dining room. We were on our own.

She moved closer to me and lowered her voice. “When you return to England please tell Mrs Thatcher how much I admire her. A woman at last who is not afraid of telling her opinion to the

whole world. She is a genuine Iron Lady. Gavrilov, involuntarily, got it right.” I promised to do my best to get her message to Mrs Thatcher. Next morning, she got me another bottle of milk

which I took with me to my deaf theoretician. He was not particularly surprised to see me with the bottle of milk. He enquired whether I needed anything else. I shouted, “Honey, I would like

to have some honey.” He made two telephone calls, and said: “Let’s go.” We walked down the stairs. In the courtyard stood an enormous car. The driver opened the rear doors for us. I knew

the car by reputation. It was a ZIL, the limousine used by Russian VIPs.  We drove silently for a good half an hour across Moscow. Professor X was clearly not in the mood for talking. I did

not say a word either. I did not think it was appropriate to ask for the purpose of the trip. I kept on looking out of the window. The city looked bleak. Eventually, we reached a narrow

street where we stopped in front of a small shop. There was a shop window but no merchandise on show. By parking there we blocked the street but there were no other vehicles to be seen, near

or far. Having reached his destination, the driver appeared ready to fall asleep at the wheel. We got out of the car. I managed to decipher the shop’s name. It was called _dom myoda_,

“House of Honey”.  Inside, there were hundreds and hundreds of jars standing on shelves like well-disciplined soldiers. The jars displayed a variety of colours which I assumed stood for

various kinds of honey, derived from various kinds of flowers. “I would recommend you choose the acacia honey. I think that’s the best. How many jars would you like?” “Just one,” I said,

“that will be enough until I go back to England”. “Can you buy honey in England?” He asked. I did not want to belittle his efforts in getting me the greatly needed nectar. I replied.

“Occasionally.” He produced a spoon. “I presume you want to taste your honey. It will help your throat.” On the way back we talked of electromagnetism. On the third day of my visit, my

faithful provider of milk said goodbye. When parting, she pressed my hand and looked deeply into my eyes, presumably trying to remind me of my promise to deliver her message to Mrs Thatcher.

The other scientists I met later in the week were less bright, less fluent in English and less hard of hearing. I don’t remember them. When I returned to England I had to get back to work

immediately. Two of my research students needed immediate attention. When I had time to reflect on my visit to Moscow, I realised how odd my experience had been. How was Professor X so

speedy in getting us to the House of Honey? Whose car was that ZIL anyway? Why did my English teacher leave no address? She did not ask for my address either. Why was her English so very

much better than could have been expected of a provincial school teacher? All these mysteries were left unresolved. I still regret that I betrayed my teacher’s trust. I never made an attempt

to deliver her message to Mrs Thatcher. I simply did not know how. A MESSAGE FROM THEARTICLE _We are the only publication that’s committed to covering every angle. We have an important

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