"Good grief, these prices," I whisper, staring at the counter with the same desperate horror any pensioner in a store feels these days. Because twice a month, I’m a pensioner too. Let me explain: twice a month, the inmates in our penal colony are taken to the kiosk. It really is a kiosk—a tiny shop, like the kind you’d find in a village or summer cottage settlement, with a very limited selection of food. An inmate can spend 9,000 rubles a month. No more. The average pension in Russia is 15,800 rubles. But I’m given food—bad food, but free. I’m in prison uniform, so I don’t need clothes or shoes. I don’t spend anything on utilities, mobile service, internet, transportation, or medicine. I don’t have to buy gifts for my foolish but beloved grandchildren. And so on. If you subtract mandatory non-food expenses from the average pension, it turns out that my 9,000 rubles a month for food is comparable to what the average pensioner can actually afford to spend on it. So in economic terms, I’m a pensioner too. And I’ll be honest, plain and simple: these prices absolutely blow my mind. And their rise does so doubly. I arrived here 10 months ago, and the great inflationary tragedy of the pensioner has unfolded right before my eyes. First, canned stewed meat became a luxury item, going up from 140 rubles to 250 (79%). I haven’t bought it in a long time, and I assure you, a pensioner can afford potatoes with stewed meat at most once a month. Whenever I ask about canned fish, the saleswoman sighs, knowing the inmates have stopped buying it: on average, it’s gone up from 110 to 170 rubles (55%). The foundation of my kiosk snacks—the magical trio of canned beans, green peas, and corn—has risen in price from 56–70 rubles to 80–85 (30%). Russian cheese now costs 237 rubles, and I only let my gaze slide over it, thinking: that’s food for oligarchs. The last stronghold of cheap calories was seaweed salad, but even that has gone up from 45 to 65 rubles (44%). And then there’s milk, which really finishes me off. A carton used to cost 68 rubles, and now they’re selling some new stuff for 86. I bought it, then looked closer: the word “milk” wasn’t even on the carton. “Dairy drink made with vegetable fats.” Sunflower oil has risen to 90 rubles, and I’m waiting for the next price spike with great anxiety. _______________________________________ I know that prices in our little prison shop are the same as outside. So I say this with full responsibility: the average Russian pensioner is destitute, facing a very real prospect—if not outright hunger, then a complete shift to a diet of cheap instant noodles. Fruit is completely out of reach. As for vegetables—you can only rely on what you grow yourself. Of course, I understood all this before. But actually finding yourself in the shoes of someone who shops while nervously calculating the total in their head and saying, “You know what, I probably won’t take the mackerel after all”—that’s something else. It really hits you. Very instructive. I’ve done the math—my personal food inflation is no less than 40%. I would really like the head of the Central Bank, Nabiullina—who recently said inflation in Russia is 8%—to take part in an experiment called “living on a pension.” And Putin too, who just approved a minimum wage of 13,890 rubles. At that income level, even a dairy drink is a luxury.