By Deidre Dare

Once upon a time, the King of Spades figured out a (legal) way of making a lot of money very quickly.

Having money is relaxing. I know that because once upon a time, in a land far, far away I had a great deal of it. Cash may not buy happiness, but it does buy freedom and freedom goes a long way in the pursuit of happiness.

With respect to someone we knew who I will call "Anton," I once asked the King of Spades if power and money are always corrupting influences. You see, our Anton had recently started to think quite well of himself due to certain advancements in his career and improvements to his payslip, and had become, in consequence, oppressive.

As an answer, the KoS told me a little story.

The KoS, while he was enjoying the above-mentioned success, went to a cocktail party where there were many dignitaries and other people of a high-falutin' nature present. He noticed an especially important, if aged, movie producer talking to a small group across the room. Feeling confident because of his new-found wealth, he went right up to this distinguished man, interrupted someone and introduced himself while extending his hand.

The producer turned to him and, without taking his hand, dryly said, "You're just like Putin."

The thing is: that's a compliment (though I'm sure the gentleman did not intend it as such). When you are "just like Putin," you know you're on top of the world. And it's your oyster, baby.

After that conversation with the KoS, I developed the concept of the "Putin Scale". Basically, it's a scale from 1 to 10; 10 meaning you're feeling just like Vladimir Putin and 1 meaning you're feeling just like Monica Lewinsky.

So, for instance, Anton was probably hovering around an 8 on the scale and, the KoS, when he was experiencing his prosperity, was obviously close to a 9. I think it's safe to say that Putin pretty much always scores a 10 (after all, it's his scale).

A 10 basically means you're bursting with confidence because everyone and everything around you tells you that you are great. Everything you touch turns to gold and you seem like an unstoppable force in the universe.

Now, the last time I scored close to a 10 was one Saturday night a few weeks ago: I looked hot as Hell, a fan asked to have his picture taken with me, my agent had told me that publishers were dying for my book and I was actually hanging out with an Unnamed Oligarch. (Well, I know his name, but I'm not going to print it for God's sake!)

Hanging out with this Unnamed Oligarch meant fancy cars and Security, jumping every queue at all the best places and, oddly enough, buying your own champagne. But still...

I mean, I was hanging out with an oligarch, how cool is that?

Feeling very high up on the Putin Scale, I decided, for God knows what reason (alcohol?), that it would be a good idea to pick up a woman for a little threesome action with my date for the evening, who was a friend of the Unnamed Oligarch.

Currently, I'm liking them thin and small, and I scoured the dance floor for any potential candidates. Sure enough, this being Moscow and, thus, on the wilder side of wild, a woman fitting the bill was easily met, flirted with and taken home with only about an hour's worth of effort on my part and one charming smile on the part of my date's.

Back at the flat, I opened some pink champagne, gave my date a cigar and began the complex process of three-way seduction, which always seems to fall into my hands in these situations. I suppose because the men are just so giddy with happiness, they lose the power of speech.

(As an aside: speech is an important part in the art of any seduction. Don't forget our gamekeeper!) About a half hour into my make-out session with the girl, the Unnamed Oligarch showed up for a glass of whisky, scolded me and then promptly fell asleep on the couch, giving me, serendipitously, an opportunity to move things into the bedroom.

But an unfortunate discovery was made within the confines of that room of antics: my girl was pure, 100 per cent, lesbian. Since I couldn't leave my date out in the cold (though he surely offered, with the small condition of being permitted to watch), I had him put her in a cab and send her home.

As we went to sleep a little later, and dawn began to break, I wondered where we'd all fall on the Putin Scale after another feral night out on the town.

Here's my assessment:

Me: 1

My Girl: 1

My Date: 1

Unnamed Oligarch: 10

xxoo

DD

■ Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" can be read online at: www.deidredare.com