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With an exquisitely manicured finger, she points to a diamond encrusted wristwatch. The truth is I am not a City high-flyer and not even a plumber. After all, she was there to find a suitable man - and I was there to find a suitable woman. She adores nightclubs and giggles about getting in free on account of her uscule skirts.

Scroll down for more..."This is lovely," she tells me. Her blue eyes freeze and she removes her hand from my arm. She tells me: "I find myself very good-looking."She is proud of her curves - "Men are not dogs, they don't like bones" - and long legs. She's been in England since her parents sent her to boarding school at the age of 15.

Now we're strolling down Old Bond Street in London. If they exist, they are a glittering army of clever, glamorous, ambitious, sophisticated vamps, descending, locust-like on London, the world's leading financial centre, in a mad search for merchant bankers, commodity traders and City bonus - pocketers. To find out, I would romance the Russianistas, uncover the Ukrainians, and leave no Estonian unturned. I shall adopt the persona of a wealthy young man-about-town. It is 4.23am when Natalia and I leave, together, and she sees the wristwatch - £33,000-worth of antique gold, silver and precious stones - in the shop window. There seem to be more Russians in Chelsea than were at the Siege of Stalingrad. I'm pretending to be working on my laptop in a bar when I hear the now unmistakable sound of Russian being spoken. Favoured topics of conversation would be the barman, for example, the bar or the club.

She pauses at a jewellery shop and stares in the window. It all started a few weeks earlier when I heard that Britain is under siege from a monstrous regiment of Russian temptresses - arriving here on the billionaire coat tails of Roman Abramovich and his fabulouslywealthy friends, and set on grabbing a British boyfriend, a British expense account and a British passport. Not wanting to be caught out by elaborate lies, I tell anyone who asks that I inherited my money and amuse myself by writing screenplays. I resolve to spend money I don't have as if there's no tomorrow - and keep a diary that may go some way to keeping me. They haunt stylish bars, ostentatious restaurants and swanky hotels. Continuing a conversation with an available Russianista from there on isn't difficult. (I'm 6ft 1in and she towers over me.) She's from St Petersburg, she tells me, and is 24.

She adds: "I hope for serious attitude from you." I take Nastia to Nobu and she apologises for her English. I am beginning to think that even if they are all golddiggers, they are tremendous fun.

She is stunningly beautiful, elegant, and with a figure that a movie star would die for. Sleek women of uncertain backgrounds dance round their handbags, and I can hear the murmur of Slavic accents. She's wearing something blue and filmy that shouts money. It's called Pangaea and it's popular with visiting Russians and the younger members of the Royal Family.

I've known her for four hours and we have just had a bottle of champagne that cost me £200. There's plenty of talk around the place about Rapacious Russians and Slavic Sirens stalking our streets in search of men - and men with money, at that. "There's a lot of Eastern Europeans in tonight," I say to the barman. Every night is Russian night." It is 2.37am when I find what I've been looking for. She doesn't want to eat because she's worried about her figure, but she does want to drink. My jaw drops, but I have to remember this is her world. She tells me that though she's from Moscow, she holidays in Mustique and Monaco and loves Prada. This is where Prince Harry took it upon himself to lash out at a photographer, so I know it must be a classy joint. We sit with two other Russian girls and Natalia demands I buy more champagne - which leaves me £150 less well off (not that I was well off anyway). Unfortunately, much of it is in Russian and I'm beginning to feel my function is merely to pick up the bill. Does Natalia see all men - me included - as cash cows? I feel a little let down by Natalia's commercial approach and decide it's wise - if only for the sake of my bank manager's sanity - that we don't see each other again. Next day, I head west to Chelsea, home of the ultimate oligarch, Roman Abramovich. Once I'm fairly sure the girl is Russian (normally by eavesdropping on her conversations), I sidle over and make lighthearted small-talk to assess the situation.

I drop her off in the taxi, and the next morning she sends me a text message telling me she had a nice time. These gals will happily accede to a request for a date from any man who looks loaded.

In other circumstances I might have seen her again, but my wallet would not allow it. She's pretty, pale-skinned and has a pixie-like expression. Having overheard her accent in a small coffee shop in central London, I strike up conversation and invite her out for dinner. Whether you ever actually get a second date depends on whether you really are rich.

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As the evening goes on, it turns out Svetlana thinks Disney World in Florida is another of the seven wonders of the world. I steer the conversation away from the Millennium Wheel, the Dome of St Paul's and Big Ben... "Yes, because if you were a blonde and dyed your hair brunette, how would that make a difference? "There are even people who think blondes are stupid," she laughs, shaking her golden hair in delight. Svetlana tells me that an ex-boyfriend bought her a convertible Mini. I have a fun evening with Svetlana, but it is obvious that my most important charm (apart from my tolerance of endless discussion of hair colour) is what she believes to be my wealth. She is doing her final practical training to become a pathologist.

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