Igor Dobrolovskiy practically beats his chest. Though sitting, he puffs it out further still and makes a series of emphatic gestures as he demonstrates his physical skill, “I’m a professional dancer. I’m not the same shape like before, of course. I’m over fifty,” he says through a laugh with that easy charm which is only ever attained by foreign gentlemen of a certain age. “Still, I show class. Like today, I have to move. I have to move my legs and show them.” He gestures again in a sort of seated pirouette, his heavy imperial moustache impressively staying in place. Continue reading Igor’s Iceman →