Many aspects of Russian culture have been constantly under scrutiny since the melting of the big freeze between Russia and the rest of the world.

Fiscal policies, security measures, the nuclear industry and the Hermitage are all examined on a fairly regular basis. There is, however, one key area of Russian existence which is rarely granted a place in the limelight.

I am referring to that unpredictably-textured white miracle known to the locals as smetana, and uninspiringly translated into English as sour cream.

There are few places in the city where queuing is a regular part of everyday life, as it once was. Still, the automation and technology that are affecting other spheres of activity have, as yet, left the smetana trade mercifully unscathed.

In shops bearing such extraordinarily original names as "Moloko" (Milk), people still queue for smetana, clutching carefully-washed jars. In this way they carry on the traditions of those days before pre-packed food put an end to all the fun.

As I join the queue with my scrupulously scrubbed jar, complete with lid, I can feel myself drifting into that upper state of meditation usually achieved only after years of patient study. I realize that this is it, this is the answer.

Nirvana is open to those who remember their jars. This may seem unlikely to those who are not in on the secret, and I must confess to early skepticism myself.

There is, however, undeniably an element of self-preservation at work also. If one does not embark on a journey on a higher plain as one stands among the sharp-elbowed babushkas, one is likely to start foaming at the mouth, pointlessly throwing the contents of one's pockets around the place and babbling incoherently.

This higher state of consciousness is not only essential for survival, it is also a direct follow-on to the feeling of intense smugness one has from remembering to bring one's jar. One feels that one is doing one's bit for the ozone-layer, for ecology and all that green stuff. No throw-away plastic containers for me, thanks. No contribution to global warming.

This mysticism is all very well, but the facts do support my hypothesis. In my local dairy produce shop alone, nearly 150 liters of smetana is purchased every day. That is around five full churns of the ambrosial fluid.

On Fridays, the total is nearer 200 liters. Can merely gastronomical factors account for such vast quantities of smetana disappearing down the throats of Petersburgers? Must not the goodly burghers of the city be also intent on improving the spiritual quality of their lives?

Perhaps not the most convincing of theories, I am prepared to concede. But there is certainly more to the simple act of smetana-purchasing than meets the eye of the casual observer.

Galya, smetana-pourer for the last 18 years, informs that the best smetana should be smooth, easy to pour and glisteny. If it is thick, it is too old, and if it has lumps in, it is not made from real milk, but from powder.

One must be constantly on one's guard while dealing with smetana. It is a tricky business. I have, on several occasions, been warned off certain vintages of smetana, both by fellow queue-standers, and by smetana-pourers themselves.

There is a reverence awarded to the product by all who come into contact with it that is not present in other trade circles. The very queues differ in intensity from, for example, bread queues.

This is due to the fact that one does not simply ram the purchased product into a bag and leave the shop. One has to check that the lid is properly screwed on tightly enough, and that the smetana has not spilled over the side of the jar. One may even be tempted to take a swig of one's booty right then and there in the shop.

If one is a truly professional smetana-buyer, one also provides oneself with a plastic bag into which one delicately places one's full, white jar.

Even for the professional, the transaction is not without its hazards. I was witness to an incident recently where a mature woman, quite plainly a smetana-professional, ran into difficulties with her smetanafication.

She had inadvertently had more weighed out than she could pay for, and was thus hostilely de-smetanified by an irate smetana-pourer. The queue snapped out of its state of hyper smetana-induced revery and entered into lively discussion.

The mature professional's smetana was to be washed down the drain rather than run the risk of being sold at a discount rate. Fortunately for the professional, the shop's water supply had been cut off, so the jar could not be rinsed out, and the pro got away with a few extra grams of smetana.

The supreme absurdity of such incidents is enough to make dreamers of even the most impatient of queue-standers. I thus wholeheartedly recommend my forthcoming set of seminars, "Zen and the art of smetana" to all.

However, I do draw the line at standing in line with an empty bottle for my vegetable oil. Nirvana can only be pushed so far.