Last night I went to an evening of Russian music at the Pushkin House, in the upstairs front drawing room of this Regency Bloomsbury building, cornices on the ceiling, windows full height. A couple, he Russian, she (wife) English performed music my mother would have called (disparagingly) "troo lya-lya". He was small with a blond ponytail tied tight at the nape of his neck and eyes that disappeared when he smiled. They were invisible much of the time. Bits of opera; bits of operetta; folk songs; smaltzy carabet songs of the sort spooked arisotcrats and the better-off bourgeoisie would have wept over in Kievan restaurants while the Revolution was making its inexorable way south.

His baritone was large and rich, heavy with vibrato while he accompanied hismelf on a giant accordion, its shoulder straps a strait-jacket. She played a mean sobbing gypsy violin and also a truly tremulous balalaika. She sang too, good voice, dreaful accent. The audience sat on plastic chairs, the old ones nostalgic, the young ones - and surprisingly many WERE young - also nostalgic. There were some American accents, but most people I thought, were of Russian origin, except for the odd guest and the even odder wannabe Russian groupie.

And all the time, I was wondering: this Pushkin House is some serious real estate. Who pays for it?