6. Let the die be cast

Putin's Diary is the behind-the-scenes story of the special Military operation in Ukraine. It is based on an infamous Russian telegram channel with gossip from the Kremlin. If you want to subscribe you can do so below.

I feel a strange sadness after Konstantin and Boris have left. But I also worry. Their visit made me launch my plans a little earlier than I had planned. I shrug it off. It will work. It must work, or it will be the end of the world.

I have trouble sleeping. It’s my bladder. I wake up many times and go to the bathroom. I try not to look at my phone. I need my sleep.

I finally manage to fall into a strange slumber. When I wake up the sun is up, and the sky is bleak and grey, The leaves of the two Aspens trees have now all fallen off. I swing my stiff legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a few seconds, looking at my food taster, ugly Kazak with an oily face, and a huge belly, who is standing at my bedside table staring unashamedly at me. It's hard to get used to all these servants in your bedroom.

Glancing at me, he dips a tiny spoon in my Tvorog and puts it in his mouth. He closes his eyes and makes a concentrated face like he wants to show me just how hard he tries to feel if he is poisoned. Finally, he nods solemnly, I start to eat. It’s my usual breakfast. Tvorog with honey. A few quail eggs. It is not bad. My chef is one of the few people in this world who still brings me joy.

In my dressing room, the wardrobe staff has prepared two suits for me. One charcoal, and one dark grey. Both Brioni. It is the same brand that James Bond wears. The British spy. Many people say I look a little like this James Bond, but I don’t know. It is more correct to say that James Bond looks like you Said Shoigu once. It was not a bad observation. After all, while James Bond was just some muscle actor, I was, for many years, a real “spy”. After careful consideration, I chose the charcoal one. It is not an easy decision. To me, nuances are everything.

As I start to put on my shirt, there is a discreet coughing from the door and a soft female voice.

“Are you ready for your briefing, Mr President?”

It’s Sasha. My assistant. 28 years old from Belarus. Sasha first came to my attention as the winner of the Russian championship for memorization. Four thousand rivers and creeks she memorized in a single day. Not bad. As a perfectionist myself, I always appreciate people who are the best in their field. For instance, My Mistress Alina Kabaeva is the most flexible woman in the world. She can put her left leg behind her head and then bend the foot so that she can suck on her own big toe! While there are currently few real-world applications for this manoeuvre, it is impressive nonetheless.

“Go ahead, Sasha,” I say, with a manly voice, as I continue buttoning my shirt.
Sasha enters my wardrobe.

“It seems NATO fell for our coverup in Poland ” she begins “they really seem to believe it was an S300. Patrushev is handling it.”

I glance at her. She actually doesn’t look too bad. At least not from behind. For a moment I am tempted to try something. Get my mind off these stupid dreams. I’m sure a woman like her would be more than happy with a new little duplex in Minsk. But the thought of my last five women makes me come to my senses. No. Focus Vladimir.

“Go on” I say.

“Macron has called, twice, do you want me to schedule a telephone meeting?”

“No”

“Alina Kabaeva has called a few times. There is a question about some valves in her neighbour's garden. She said you knew about this.”

“Valves?” I say. I have absolutely no memory of this.

“Yes.” Sasha says, “I didn’t totally understand. There are some valves that makes a noise, and…”

“I’ll talk to her” I say, somewhat irritated, as I am suddenly reminded of my bladder. I turn to the toilet that I have installed in the dressing room and pull down my underwear.

“Keep on going, Sasha,” I say as I take my penis in my hand, and a small trickle starts.

“Rossya needs new stock photos for their ‘Man of the century Coverage” she continues as if the President of Russia urinating just two meters in front of her was nothing special. “Can I schedule a photo shoot?”

I sigh.

“It’s important Mr President”, says, Sasha.

“Ok” I say “but for the love of god, keep Shoigu away”

“Of course, My President” she smiles.

“Anything else?” I say as I pull up my briefs and start putting my pants on.

“Yes.” She says "“A school in Perm has made a Papier Mache statue of you. Five meters high. The pulp was sponsored by PCBK, a local manufacturer of corrugated boards. They have invited you for the inauguration.”

I tighten my belt.

“Really?” I say

“Yes”, She smiles* “really”*

She glances at my crotch “Zip up Mr President?”

I smile too. This will be a great day. I think as I exit and start walking towards the helicopter. The day when Russia begins her revenge!