Goodbye London, Hello Kitty!

Cough, cough, splutter! A few months have passed and lo- my blog lies covered in cyberdust and the dried discarded wings of pixelnymphs long gone, dessicated between posts.

Having recently tipped my cloche in adieu to ol' London town and its cheerful array of omnibuses, I'm back where I belong in the Nihon. This time I have turned my back on the teacher's blackboard and soggy duster, and am instead engaged in professional pedantry at the hallowed halls of the Ritz College in the southern isle of Kyushu: a lush steamy island of verdant hills, hot springs, and the occasional futon bobbling by in the bay.

I first arrived and then farewelled Japan in the sultry summer months, and again for this sequel in my misadventures, I have arrived at a time when the air is throbbing with the rhythm of myriad insects, a time when it is difficult not to ride one's red bicycle without being clobbered in the head by a dragonfly the size of a Sopwith Camel.

To usher in the summer of course are the wonderful hanabi or fireworks festivals which are held in every town, usually over a river or attractive water feature. Here in Beppu we have a delightful bay (overlooking the futons) over which fireworks were verily banged and exploded, and many a "sugoi!" ("fantastic!") or a "kirei!" ("beautiful!") was murmured from the be-kimono'd crowd. See talkie below for firework shenanigans.

Sir S still resides in London Town - sigh! - but will be gadding this way permanently just before Christmas, when he will be just in time for Christmas - yes, Yuletide! - hanabi over the bay. Chilly, but spectacular by all accounts.

Now that I'm reconfrabulated to the Modern Communications Device provided by the chaps at Yahoo BB, I will no doubt return to these pages soon to further update my absent friends on goings-on and the like. Hurrah!

Bunkering down in Berlin

Sir S and I flew our little red plane over Berlin and crashlanded sausage-side, where we parachuted into the cosy digs of one St John Nottlesby with the last of our chocolate rations intact.

As to be expected, Notts was a super guide. Having gone native, the fellow nattered on in the local lingo with ease, took us out to some glorious cafes and restaurants, including a charming Russian Jewish restaurant of esteemed crepes, and a sunny delightful beer garden. 

Evening decadence too was overindulged upon in Weimar Berlin style. We stepped the Charleston in the sauciest of dark dance halls and flirted with fine company in the sexiest of speakeasies, and it being Easter, we downed the most gruesome and potent of nectars ("Mashed Chick", wherein the strawberry liqueur mush was rather worrying) and had a brush with a delightful polar bear (but thankfully did not fall into the pit like one poor fraulein). 

A grand weekend!

Bluebell Dell

Golly, it's certainly been an aeon between posts. Sadly London life does not inspire the same as the Far East, and thus my output has dwindled greatly in the bloggery department. Things are set to change this summer however, if things turn out right.

A nostalgic past-time that I rediscovered here in grey wet England is that of strolling through bluebell woods in late April or early May. Almost an inverse of Japanese hanami, here when at their most splendid, the bluebells carpet the ground so that all that can be seen in the pooled shadows of trees is the purple-tinged lilac haze of nodding bluebell flowers. Under cherry blossoms in Japan, people picnic and admire the boughs above, but here in English woods one cannot picnic for fear of squashing 'em (and the ground is likely to be wet from torrential rains), so one instead strolls and observes on foot.

Sir S and I spent an afternoon in Bluebell Wood in North London. It's a small scrap of woodland, but said to be very ancient, and the scrap itself is quite busy with birds, squirrels, with signs of foxes too. What appeared to be a woodpecker's hole in a tree was of great interest to Sir S, who dangled my camera in said hole and got more than he bargained for when something squeaked, growled and battered the camera with a forboding hiss. We had no idea what it was, as we ran a mile in the other direction, and the only snap taken by my camera was useless as it just showed an empty, dark void.

Unfortunately the vivid bluebell carpets of my childhood were not to be found in this wood, however the scattering of blue, pink and whitebells was charming enough all the same, and the sun stayed out long enough for me to get a tad sunburnt.

Hiroshima Mon Amour

Why didn't I know about this film until now?
Beautiful and sad in black and white, this film tells the story of a French woman in post-war Hiroshima, whose love affair with a Japanese man unleashes tormenting memories of her forbidden love with a German soldier, the rejection she endured from her village, and loss. The flashback sequences and image montages certainly seem ahead of their time and capture most engagingly the haze of fumbled memories intertwined with present-day happenings. I'm also intrigued by the pairing of a white woman and an Asian man in a 1959 film, surely this was groundbreaking stuff in its day? Eiji Okada was rather the dish!

A Permanent Part-timer in Distress

During my time in the ol' Nippon, I heard many a woeful tale of the "furiita" or part-time worker: temporary work, low hourly wages, unpaid overtime and no paid holidays or other benefits. In fact, lesson lengths at Schoolhouse Usagi were "revised" so that full-time teachers were instead legally recognised as "part-time", thus avoiding payment of Shakai Hoken (Social Insurance) by the employer. My days at St Hearn's - although generous in hourly wage - did not offer paid annual leave, overtime or sick leave, most part-time staff juggled multiple jobs, and lived frugally during the summer and winter hols. I was always particularly careful not to slip or catch a cold during wet weather - ye Shinto gods only knew what would have happened if I couldn't teach my classes!

A Permanent Part-timer in Distress, a doco filmed by and featuring narrator Iwabuchi-san, chronicles over one year his descent into the despair of furiita living. A temporary worker at Canon assembling printer cartridges, Iwabuchi-san earns around 1,200 yen per hour. With monthly takings of around 140,000 yen, and with rent and a student loan eating up a big part of his wages, he is usually only left with 60,000 yen to last the month. He lives in agency accommodation, even his bike is provided by the agency (this was one of the many disadvantages of working at Schoolhouse Usagi: your job pervaded private space, at times causing a strange claustrophobia that discouraged homeliness). Temporary workers are cheaper for companies to hire. Holidays, always eagerly anticipated by full-timers, are something to dread for furiitas: if you don't work, you don't get paid. Instead of soaking up the summer, Iwabuchi-san heads to Tokyo in search of dayjobs that will keep him going through the holiday period. His coworkers are eager to escape this cycle of temporary jobs: a married man with a kid on the way is too ashamed to reveal his part-time status to peers. Courted by journalists, Iwabuchi-san finds himself a sometimes reluctant media darling in the TV spotlight. With part-time contracts on the rise in Japan and fewer opportunities for full-time jobs, could this spell the end for the cradle-to-grave career model previously lauded in working Japan? What does the future hold for this generation of workers and will the government do anything about it?

A thought-provoking debut, this doco is a must-see peek into the changes currently taking place in Japanese workplaces and society.

Remains of the day

Was rather taken aback by the amount of rubbish at the Notting Hill Carnival, and the absence of bins! One had to dispose of one's skewer/curry bowl/coconut/can & c by balancing it precariously on the corner of a Box, which was stacked in a teetering pile of Boxes, serving as Bins of a Sort. Others tossed chicken legs and leftovers on the ground. It is hard to remain dignified whilst rolling one's heel over a greasy chicken leg when dancing and wearing Lolita shoes (with bows) & a sarong-trouser suit.

In Japan, recycling bays were everywhere at big events like this. Interesting too is that since my move to Blighty, my everyday household bins have been reduced from this ...

to this...



The bin at the front, right, is food waste which will of course break down fragrantly and naturally. Behind that, the tins, paper packaging & c are said to be recycled (although their lack of separation at home has me suspicious they are not recycled properly by the collectors). The bin on the left goes straight to landfill: mostly plastic packaging and everything else. Ye Guide to Recycling brochure places lots of emphasis on the food disposal, as if this is a radical idea. Please refer to the Far East for some recycling tips, Bury-Me-Under Park Council! *waggles finger in an easterly direction*

The Carnivalesque

The interwebs sagely advise that the Notting Hill Carnival began in the '60s and was organised by the local Caribbean community as a protest against race riots of the time. The carnival continues to celebrate Caribbean culture as well as embracing the wider cultural diversity of Modern London.





Sir S, Her Mazness and I were swept along with the tide of people on Notting Hill's suburban streets. We snacked on orange paddies (spicy pasties), supped coconut water, and grooved to reggae and electronic offerings at the various street dance parties around the carnival. Many a rump was shaken in a provocative manner, and many a spangled cleavage glittered in the sun as the carnival parade wend its way through the burgeoning streets. I kept my eyes peeled for Mr Brett Anderson, who is known to live in these parts, but he and his fringe were most likely safely ensconced somewhere more subdued, such as Hampstead Heath. We caught the Tube just in time before wanton hooliganism marred the day's festivities.





I say, I have never lived in so multicultural a place as London and I am simply absorbed in observing the array of people, interesting fashions & c. Near my lodgings here in Bury-Me-Under Park, whilst waiting in line for the omnibus, or wandering the markets, it is not uncommon to be standing next to a woman in a flowing burqa, or a bejewelled sari, or a towering African headscarf, or next to a man in a kurta shirt, or with a sweep of long dreadlocks. As I telegraphed to His Edenic Maj only tonight, I feel as if I'm not in England at all, but in a futuristic metropolis in the sky.

Parklife!

And in this case, garden life. This little squirrel, along with his/her family members, go on daily raids of the apple tree in our garden. As shown here, the squirrel is gathering up cunningly placed hazelnuts, and thus lured into our kitchen and sneakily filmed by me.

Things that one doesn't see in the Nippon ...

... but can see a lot of in London:

(1) people shouting / arguing / gesticulating madly / cursing / complaining loudly in public;
(2) open demonstrations of road rage, such as a driver slamming their brakes on their automobile, clambering out of said automobile as if it were on fire, running to the car behind them, doing a little dance of fury before the driver of the latter car and shaking one's fist at said driver, screaming in a high pitch at said driver and using multiple swear-words before dashing back to one's automobile and screeching off at high speed;
(3) kissing in public (with lots of tongue);
(4) footpaths besmirched with mounds of dog poo, so that clouds of flies arise from them in passing as one walks by, evoking disturbing images of Biblical pestilence;
(5) run-ins with mad people in front of the supermarket;
(6) supermarket staff at the register tossing food items in one's general direction;
(7) a complete and utter lack of customer service;
(8) lattes the size of a small baby's bath;
(9) men and women spitting great globs in public, of similar proportions to (8);
(10) men and women wearing heavy amounts of fragrance, perhaps aiming to mask the stench of (4).

Elegant Bath

Back in Blighty!

Born here, and decades later, I'm back. Hello Britain!

The visiting Craaazy A, overwhelmed by British food and its mammoth proportions.

Last view of Japan

The love-hotel wilderness of Juso, Osaka.

I left my friends at Matsue Station and my heart in Japan

And so it was, after I had dusted down the blackboard at St Hearn's, emptied the inkpots, marked the last paper and put my red pens aside, it was time to leave my beloved Nippon. Sir S had already left a few months earlier for a good job in London, and Britain beckoned. My last days were a hectic and delightful blur of sayonara shenanigans with friends old and new.

Misses S, M & Usagi

Misses K & T

Fare thee well, Hiroshima friends!

Japan was home to me and although I was an outsider in some ways, I felt like I belonged there, like I was a part of the place and it an important part of me. Beautiful Nippon, you will be much missed.

A midsummer night's sayonara party

Mata ne, Matsue!

One day, I'll be back.

Last summer in Nippon

I arrived in Japan three years ago, in the tormenting humidity of a Kyoto summer. I temple-hopped with a fan in one hand and a parasol in the other, and stopped regularly for green tea ice cream, wiping the sweat away with my trusty sweat towel. My time in Japan came full circle and I spent my last days here again bathing in my own sweat, and listening to the urgent refrains of the last cicadas. Temple rhythms from Okudani-cho.

Old Matsue

As students at St Hearn's hurriedly scribbled their last assignments and readied themselves for some serious swotting for finals, I savoured my last month in Japan living at the house of friends in the charming older quarter of Matsue, Okudani-cho. The local streets were narrow and lined with shambling old wooden buildings, windows gated with wooden bars like insect cages, and some buildings were hung with ornately written kanji signs advertising various businesses, from soy sauce to sake, and kimonos to tailoring.

Precarious during peak hour, the narrow alleyways were abundant with anarchic school students riding along the wrong side of the road, messaging on their keitais and going like the clappers, completely oblivious to wandering ojiichans, little kiddies and the likes of law-abiding citizens such as Miss Ember. Things became more complicated when Strawberry Cones delivery boys on scooters or an omnibus were thrown into the mix. The omnibus in particular would hoon down the narrow streets, scattering gossiping elderfolk, vegetable sellers and snoozing cats in its wake. When crossing the road, most Japanese wait for the green man to doff his 30s gangster hat before walking forth onto the tarmac, but when it comes to riding bicycles or driving any kind of vehicle in a confined space, the traffic is as heart attack-inspiring as an autorickshaw joyride through New Delhi.

Red post boxes are most cheerful.

Despite these palpitations, I was delighted to cycle about the town. Nearby, temples and shrines were tucked away in the back lanes behind houses; a sultry tang of something like banana emanated from the open doors of the soy sauce factory; cats dosed in the street and kitsch flowerpots bloomed around doorways. The soy sauce factory was painted a cheerful red, and I liked to admire the ceramic pots on the windowledges which bore the crisp blue kanji of 森 (mori; forest), the owners' name.



Around the corner was the samurai district and the castle, perched above a forest that vibrated with the percussion of cicadas and, in the evenings, echoed with the alarming lowing of the bullfrog. From here I would cycle to Kyomise, a charming area of Taishoroman style, coasting through the mix of European-style buildings and Japanese wooden ryokans and other places of entertainment, to the elegant bridges aglow with flickering faux-lantern light, and along the rivers lined with weeping willows and the warm buttery light of old-fashioned yellow street lamps that budded between the foliage.

A random canal in Okudani-cho.

San-in Beach Party

Golly, it's been a while between posts, and much has come to pass since my foray into host bars. But first, after my birthday celebrations in June came the San-in Beach Party in July. With Miss T and the team from Matsue and some Tottori tomodachi, we pitched tents on the beach after sunset, gulped down some Cassis Orange from the beach bar, pranced to trance on the sands, chilled out in the chill-out tent, then got down and dirty in the dance halls with the Dex Pistols who mixed up 80s and 90s faves with funsome bleepery. Miss T spent much of the daytime bobbling on the sea upon her inflatable softcream, and Mr C and I took to the waters in his rowing boat, and ended up floating backwards in the wrong direction towards North Korea. The gals and I took a bellydance workshop on the sands, and in the evening twirled sparklers by the sea and admired the glow of ships on the horizon. Fun times!

Tale of a Hiroshima love thief

And so it was that Miss Ember gracefully stepped out from the bright lights of the roaring 20s, and retired backstage into the quieter shadows of the 30s (narrowly avoiding a great depression en route). Myself and my friends set off to Koba (for a superb dinner and drinks), then to the loft room of Pagoda* (for cocktails and cigars) and then some of us ventured into the blue-illumined dark of Club Deep, a host bar on the fringes of the Nagarakawa nightlife district.

Most friends of mine will know that I am *rather* partial to elegant, pretty men with pixie-like hair and features, and long seductive fringes. I have oft swooned before the shrines of Mssrs Anderson, Depp and Bloom, and find that many young Japanese men put high stock in a suave appearance, with great detail put into hair, clothing, accessories & c. I especially like the effort invested in Japanese men's hair, in particular the hair-style sported by some J-pop stars and, er ... hosts. For some time I've been cradling a desire to visit a host bar and, as my last days in Japan loom near, I thought my birthday would be a perfect chance to experience a host bar.

The manga-haired look favoured by hosts,
as illustrated by this anime character in Final Fantasy VII

Fearful of the High Prices of that documentary, I was pleasantly surprised by the Beginners' Set of 3,000 yen ($30 in the home currency) per person for limitless all-you-can-drink cocktails and ale. The Managing Host, a twenty-something gent with hair so colossal it out-towered that of Robert Smith in his backcombing days, guided us through the Boy Menu which featured glamourous poses of the hosts in full kit: designer suits, white shirts and be-spiked hair. We could select as many as we liked, so I picked out 5 deliciously fey chaps, including the charming Mr T and the dishy Mr S, dangerously young and manga-haired.

With the charming Mr S

For those not familiar with host bars, the concept is the alluring brother of the hostess bar, where customers pay to be entertained by the conversation and attentions of attractive and charming members of the opposite sex. Usually you buy drinks for them and yourself. The drinks are often marked up, and the champagne is notoriously expensive ($100-$400). The focus is on talking and entertainment, flirtation and flattery, and usually there is strictly no kissing or naughty acts (unless your hostess/host decides to see you on the side).

The hosts rotated every 20 minutes and chattered and joked, fetched us drinks, wiped away the moisture from our coasters (nice touch!), lit cigarettes and generally waited on us. S-san and a couple of others were trainee hosts (their second shift in some cases!), and they were rather shy and unsure of how to lead the conversation. The older hosts were more confident and vivacious conversationalists. We learned that common customers include young gals going out for a night on the town, middle-aged women, hostesses, and strangely, couples! Young women visit the host bars as an entree to an evening of dancing, while hostesses often clamour into the host bars in the wee hours after their own shifts of hostessing have finished, to enjoy having handsome attendants waiting on them for a change.

My host with the most

Mr S was 18 and a university student. He confessed his girlfriend disapproved of his weekend job. It was noted later that he sported a love-bite on his neck, and it's possible that his worried beau planted it there to fend off over-eager customers! Mr T and I chatted about the British music halls, he being a devotee of Radiohead, The Arctic Monkeys and the like. Certainly good practice of the Nihongo! The men were very gentlemanly and respectful, and were happy to chat openly about their job and its gruelling demands. They often work 12am until 7am, constantly talking with customers and downing any drinks that are bought for them (and snuggling up to the regulars!) and after that must stay behind to tidy up the bar, & c, often not leaving until 9 or 11am. For some they then go on to university or another job, so it's common for them to fall asleep in the middle of class. How can I ever look my sleepy male students in the eye again, dear reader?

Other customers in the bar were regulars, and they were on very familiar terms with their hosts. The chaps tousled their customers' hair, cuddled them or tossed them about playfully on the sofa (most diverting!). A few of the women were on their own, and most of them were very attractive twenty-somethings. The flirtiest occurrence was when S-san invited me to stroke his magnificent manga-styled do. How could a gel refuse? For those interested, it was partially hardened with hairspray, but mostly soft and silky *swoons* In fact, I was in a state of swoon for most of my time there. I have never seen so many handsome, New Romantic-looking men in one room since my heady goth club days of the late '90s. Simply marvellous!

The party's over!

For more on the world of hosting, particularly the exclusive bars, give the doco Tale of an Osaka Love Thief a peek.

* This bar also has a most inviting hidden room tucked away behind a sliding bookcase door!

Curious adverts on The Box

At the gym this morn - while taking a jog on those whizz-bang running machines in my stripy boyleg gym kit - I was accosted by some most curious advertisements on that box device the manager always insists on having switched on. It being an hour before lunchtime, every channel on the blasted thing was screening food advertisements or cooking shows, from deep-fried nori stuffed with sea urchin, to shellfish and sushi. It made one feel mighty peaky to be giving it a hard slog on the running contraption, with mashed sea urchin innards squelching about before me. Amidst these gastronomic rumblings, out sprung a commerical for my fave chocolate snack, Kinoko no Yama (Toadstool Mountain).

Since living in Japan, I have often observed the Japanese obsession with cute little toadstools and have become obsessed with them myself. They adorn everything. Eco-bags, wrapping paper, furoshiki cloths, fridge magnets etc are emblazoned with Eurokitsch red-capped, white-spotted toadstools. In fact, so severe is my toadstool fixation, that I have acquired the nickname "Kinoko-chan" among my friends. The toadstool chocolates have a biscuit stalk with a chocolate cap - very charming bite-sized pieces! However, in the advertisement, a pretty young woman buys a box of the stuff at a convenience store, and whilst turning away from the shelves, a rather aggressive chocolate toadstool pops out from a nearby shelf and harangues her (over what, I know not). Now in the advert, the animated kinoko is not the same size as its chocolatey namesakes. In fact, it looks like a small, stunted willy. The overly swollen chocolate cap exaggerates this likeness. And for some reason, it hops about with an evil menacing look, a bit like Chucky in Child's Play. The young woman raises her eyebrows and looks discomfited. Perhaps the chocolate toadstool has put on the hard word? Anyway, the woman's reply mustn't have been what he wanted, for he hopped about on his stalk in a fine rage and at the climax of this amusing show of apoplexy, his cap popped off with an amusing "pfffft" and went sailing through the air. Capless, the poor chocolate kinoko crumpled to the floor (or, should I say, shelf), and the young woman dashed away.

Is my recent visit to the Willy Shrine messing with my mind? Dear reader, I hope not!

While I had to cling to the banister of my running machine for support after this surreal attack of deranged phallic toadstools made of chocolate, another strange advert announced itself. And again, it was about food. A man cooks kitsune udon noodles (literally "fox" noodles), and when he is about to eat them, an animated red fox jumps out at him, and throws back his foxy head to reveal a pink mohican hair-cut. The fox is suddenly donning a black leather jacket and holds an electric guitar, upon which he unleashes a roar of heavy metal, and head-bangs his newly acquired pink do to the music.

Horrors! thinks I, my two fave things have now taken on a rather bizarre, Japanese-TV-inspired aspect!

I couldn't locate these adverts on YouTube, but I found an old ad for Kinoko no Yama which is quite endearing. The closing scene of the characters dancing around the toadstool brought to mind my days in Brownies, when as a Leprechaun (in England) and a Muluka (in Australia) we danced around a brightly painted wooden toadstool, on which was perched the sacred brown owl (as opposed to the living Brown Owl, who's weight would not have been accommodated by said toadstool).