Hallo from Hiroshima!

Since Wednesday I`ve been caught up in the mad flap of familiarising myself with my new home - Hiroshima. I now live in an apartment block on the ninth floor, overlooking a river and a traditional Japanese park, with a backdrop of skyscrapers and other mod buildings. My flat is a 10 min walk from the main train station. The view from our balcony is pretty spiffo day and night - during the day, one can spot koi carp lazily swimming downstream; at night, a neon playground is in my backyard. Lorks-a-lordy, where to start ...

flatmates
I have two - an Australian (lived in Japan for six yrs) and a Canadian (1 year). Both are very noice. They are big fans of the OC and a curious drama based on a Stephen King story starring Anthony Stewart Hall of Brekkie Club fame, who has definitely had work done (or broken his nose) since the Days of Molly.

transport
I inherited a dodgarama Japanese bike (buckled basket at front, no gears) which I`ve been racing about on. Cute little trams run through the city. Most people bike it (on paths, through arcades, against traffic etc).

nightlife
there are a few gaijin bars and obviously loads of japanese bars serving beers and nibbly things. Had myself a great salad of cabbage, chilli and roast garlic last night (of Korean origin and thus the spice) at a Japanese bar with a Kiwi traveller I met in Kyoto. In contrast, went to Molly Malone`s Irish pub on Sat to watch the All Blacks and nibble on my fave, potato mash. Oddly, there are many US marines in town on weekends due to the location of a base nearby (this gave me unpleasant flashbacks to unpleasant marines in Kings Cross). Many women (J and gaijin) befriand these Marines in order to have access to US shops and moofies back at base. They are currently showing Charlie and the Johnny Depp Factor for one buck at the navy cinema. In other news, kareoke and hostess bars abound; no sign of a goth club but there is a Goth Lil Bo Peep shop which I`m yet to check out.

parks n`stuff
Hiroshima is basically built upon a series of little islands intersected by several rivers. The Peace Park, for example, is on a little island land-tied by several pretty bridges. A very tranquil place to be, the Peace Park has many moving monuments - paper cranes decorate monuments to the children who died in the Atomic bombing, as well as the many Koreans who were killed ... the Peace Bell, which can be tolled by every visitor to the park, echoes gently through the trees. I sat in front of the A-dome - all red brick and white, with a ragged metal crown of salmon-pink - and read Phryne Fisher as a group of hippie J-kids with long wild hair banged bongo drums with tribal beats into the night. The A-Dome was illuminated in orange, as if its past fire had been re-lit.

work
today I had orientation and tomorrow I have training - 1-9pm - Tues til Thurs. My first teaching sesh is this Friday, 5-9, then I work Mon - Fri 5-9 each weekday, with Sat and Sun offskies.


Sayonara for now - will post again soon with a teaching report,

Miss E

Vending Machines

... are everywhere. Next to temples, the public lav, every train station, and probably on Mount Fuji, a vending machine can be found. So far the ones I've seen stock a variety of cold teas, iced coffee and the like; beer; cigarettes; camera film and batteries. I'm yet to stumble upon a Schoolgirls' Worn Underpants Vending Machine (aka Pantyschine) but other travellers in my Kyoto hostel confirmed their existence ... apparently they abound in Tokyo and feature a piccie of the young lass who donned the enclosed panties.

Have spotted a few adverts for porn attached to stobie poles - little adhesive cards that can be peeled off and pocketted, which feature the common fantasy of a) a gaggle of schoolgirls showing their knickers or b) a neat and tidy row of nurses in very short white pinafores, each holding a stethoscope against the flesh of one's inner thigh (???). Lorks-a-lordy!

Note that if I happen upon a Pantyschine, be warned that those of you who have a disposition to High Smut may receive something rather odd in the mail as a consequence.

Totoro, Totoro!

Hit the shopping malls of Osaka today, and came across a Studio Ghibli shop! I bounced with joy at the sight of it. So many things to gawp at and add to my shopping list for all things Totoro and Kiki`s Delivery Service!

Enchanting articles included ...

• art deco-style Kiki lamp with wrought metalwork of witch on broom and a tiny statue of Jiji the Cat;
• Totoro cuckoo clock;
• Totoro apron and oven mitts;
• Totoro furry armchair;
• Assorted Kiki and Totoro towels and flannels;
• Totoro toilet seat covers!

I purchased some Kiki letter-writing paper and Totoro envelopes - so Ghibli friands, watch out for a Kiki letter in the post soon!

Is that true, Bambi, did you do a Disney Nasty?

Today I cycled about Nara with several Hostelleers - two noice Kiwis and a noice American. It was most funsome to pedal about the former Japanese capital, buzzing about from temple to temple along mossy lantern-lined avenues in the light rain. Many deer abound in Nara Park and we fed them wafers. Many a reindeer shoved an antler towards my nether regions in an attempt to snitch more food. Some of the antlers were shedding veiny red flesh, like a snakeskin. Many fawns skipped about in the ruckus, which reminded me of that tragical scene in "Bambi" where Bambi's mother got shot *weeps* which in turn reminded me of the Young Ones episode, where Vyv says: "I liked the bit where Bambi had alien sex with a flesh-eating corpse." Ahem.

Over and out on 100yen internet time.

Random smutty observation

Since leaving my little enclave of smutty Sydney friends, I haven't been able to hold froth, so to speak, on Matters Smutty. Thus I'm suffering from severe withdrawal.

In the West, the gnome is a common little garden ornament that welcomes visitors to the home. Garden gnomes are not usually rude, but occassionally might be spotted in "mooning" pose.

Here in Japan, a common sight at the doorways or gardens of homes is that of the tanuki, or raccoon. Tanuki tend to have famously large testicles (or "testiclay" ala Emily Howard in Little Britain) that dangle about or are sat upon bean-bag style by the said tanuki. Most diverting.

As Wik is wont to say, now that's what I call anarchy, right kids?

Strange cuisine

In Inari I had a fantastic lunch of cold soba noodles and tempura, which included fat juicy mushrooms, pumpkin and green chillis.

Oddly enough, out the front of most shops were barbecued sparrows impaled on sticks, as well as quail. I noticed an abundance of sparrows in Japan and many of them, it seems, end up on the barbie.

Eek!

Vulpine Divine

Today I was spirited away to a world of foxes and rice at the Fushimi Inari shrines, Inari, outside of Kyoto. Inari is the Shinto god of rice and foxies are believed to be his messengers. The shrines are scattered amid woodland over several hillsides, and are connected by domino-like corridors of red torii gates. These enchanting tunnels of red climb steadily up and down hills, and when they conclude they open out onto tiered, hotch-potch shrines that are like tiny mazes. Stone shrines of differing heights shoulder each other for space and create crooked laneways and conceal secret pathways. Many of the shrines were adorned with burning candles and all were flanked with stone foxes, often carrying keys in their mouths for the rice granary. This has to be one of my favourite places so far. I wandered around for hours in a happy dream of foxes and forests.

Bathhouse Madness

Tonight I treated myself to a visit at the Sento Spa which is two streets away from Tour Club and behind another big-arse temple. Lots of Japanese go to bathhouses if they don't have a bath at home. Sento Spa seems to be a popular hang-out and gossip-house for the local elderly women of Kyoto. I entered the changerooms where lots of old women were undressing and cackling away in a rather contagious manner. They had me smiling immediately and several charming ladies helped me out and instructed me in the art of the Japanese bathhouse.

First get a basket in which to put your precious things then stow on the shelf. Then collect bucket and stool and proceed to the shower. Grab scratchy loofah towel thingy and scrub all of one's bits until they are bright red and are about to fall off. Then fill up bucket and throw over oneself. Repeat 10 times. Then make your way through the several spas on offer, including:

+ the ｕｌｔｒａ－ｖｉｏｌｅｎｔ　spa:ｙｅｓ，　ｔｈｉｓ　ｏｎｅ　ｈａｓ　ａ　ｌｉｔｔｌｅ　ｗａｖｅ　ｍａｃｈｉｎｅｙ　ｔｈｉｎｇ　ｔｈａｔ　ｆｅｅｌｓ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｔｈｒｅｅ　ｇｉａｎｔ　ｓｕｍｏ　ｗｒｅｓｔｌｅｒｓ　ａｒｅ　ｐｕｍｍｅｌｌｉｎｇ　ｙｏｕｒ　ｂａｃｋ　ｗｉｔｈ　ｔｈｅｉｒ　ｆｉｓｔｓ．　Ｌｅａｖｅｓ　ｏｎｅ　ｂｒｕｉｓｅｄ　ａｎｄ　ｓｌｉｇｈｔｌｙ　ｖａｇｕｅ．
＋　ｔｈｅ　ｉｃｅｌａｎｄｉｃ　ｓｐａ：　ｔｈｉｓ　ｏｎｅ，　ｄｅｓｐｉｔｅ　ｔｈｅ　ａｂｓｅｎｃｅ　ｏｆ　ｉｃｅ　ｆｌｏｅｓ，　ｉｓ　ｄｉｒｅｃｔ　ｆｒｏｍ　ｔｈｅ　Ｎｏｒｔｈ　Ｐｏｌｅ．　Ｉｃｅ－ｗａｔｅｒｆａｌｌｓ　ｓｐｏｕｔ　ｆｒｏｍ　ｌｉｏｎ’ｓ　ｍｏｕｔｈｓ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｗａｌｌｓ．Ａｌｌ　ｔｈｅ　ｅｌｄｅｒｌｙ　ｗｏｍｅｎ　ｓｈｒｉｅｋ　ｌｏｕｄｌｙ　ｗｈｅｎ　ｓｕｂｍｅｒｇｉｎｇ　ｔｈｅｍｓｅｌｖｅｓ　ｉｎ　ｉｔ．　Ｔａｋｅｓ　ｍｅ　ａｂｏｕｔ　１０　ｍｉｎｕｔｅｓ　ｔｏ　ｓｕｂｍｅｒｇｅ　ｗｈｏｌｅ　ｂｏｄｙ；　ｅｍｅｒｇｅ　ｓｌｉｇｈｔｌｙ　ｓｈａｋｙ　ａｎｄ　ｒｅａｄｙ　ｔｏ　ｋｅｅｌ　ｏｖｅｒ．
＋　ｔｈｅ　ｌａｖ　ｐａｐｅｒ　ｓｐａ：　ｔｈｉｓ　ｏｎｅ　ｉｓ　ｐｕｒｐｌｅ　ｉｎ　ｈｕｅ　ａｎｄ　ｓｍｅｌｌｓ　ａｌｏｔ　ｌｉｋｅ　ｐｅｒｆｕｍｅｄ　ｌａｖ　ｐａｐｅｒ　（ａｓ　ｄｏｅｓ　ｔｈｅ　ｆａｎ　Ｉ　ｂｏｕｇｈｔ．　ｗｈｅｎｅｖｅｒ　Ｉ flutter it about I think of Sorbent and labradors).
+ the electric bath: yes, I got a shock too. A bloody big one. When the key around my wrist came into contact with a certain bathroom tile, I received such a jolt as to cause another quake in Tokyo. Nearly swooned in shock. Electricity + baths = BAD.

My body has never been cleaner and in more shock than it is now. Stumbled back to Tour Club with a body like jelly and received many bemused looks from businessmen and women cycling home.

Bamboozled

Today I took the Arashiyama-Sagano walk in North-western Kyoto through bamboo forests and past old traditional thatched houses, more shrines, temples and cemetries. The bamboo forests were a highlight - the pale green stalkiness of the bamboo made me think of fairytales and beanstalks. Under their shade it was lusciously cool and everything was steeped in tealy blue-green light.

Next to a temple I stumbled on a charming little cafe. It had ricepaper sliding doors and wooden frontage, with a tiny garden where stone seats encircled engraved stone tables, pink flowers spilled from pots and a red parasol provided shade. I sat down under the parasol for a meal of cold soba noodles with the usual condiments of wasabi, spring onion and sauce, which the hostess instructed me to combine together and dump the noodles into it, then slurp it all up.

Things got precarious when a wasp (or buzzing orange thing, and everyone knows that buzzing orange things are never nice) divebombed me from numerous angles at an awkward moment when I　ｈａｄ　ｃｈｏｐｓｔｉｃｋｓ　ｃｌｅｎｃｈｉｎｇ　ｎｏｏｄｌｅｓ　ｉｎ　ｏｎｅ　ｈａｎd whilst I fluttered ｍｙ　ｆａｎ　ｉｎ　ｔｈｅ　ｏｔｈｅｒ．　Ｉｔ　ｗａｓ　ｍｏｓｔ　ｄｉｆｆｉｃｕｌｔ　ｔｏ　ｓｗａｔ　ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｗａｓｐ　ｗｉｔｈ　ｍｙ　ｆａｎ　ａｎｄ　ｃｏｏｒｄｉｎａｔｅ　ｍｙ　ｓｏｂａ　ａｔ　ｔｈｅ　ｓａｍｅ　ｔｉｍｅ．　Ｃｏｎｓｅｑｕｅｎｔｌｙ，　ａ　ｌｉｔａｎｙ　ｏｆ　ｃｕｒｓｅｓ　ensued when ｍｙ　ｎｏｏｄｌｅｓ　ｄｒｏｐｐｅｄ　ｏｎｔｏ　ｔｈｅ　ｐｅｂｂｌｅｓ　ａｎｄ　Ｉ batted myself in the eye with my fan as indoor diners looked on, potentially choking on their noodles at my display of utter nincompoopery. The pretty pebbles just looked so scandalised that they were swamped in soba that I slyly swiped up the fallen noodles and put them to the side of my plate, but I did blush even harder when I spied bits of gravel stuck to said soba. Eek! And so the lesson is to always put one's chopsticks down before swiping at a wasp.

Temple of Love

Today I enthusiastically launched myself into temple-hopping, starting off at Teapot Hill for the walk up to the Kiyomizu Temple then onto Kodaiji Temple and the Yasaka Shrine.

Kyoto is filled with so many little streets lined with traditional wooden shopfronts and restaurants, which provide tantalising eyecandy for the window-shopper and temple-hopper alike. So many fan shops! So many teapot shops! So many ornament shops selling the dinkiest trinkets in the shapes of owls, raccoons, rabbits and other woodland creatures. In the alleyways I spotted two geisha: each had a tiny hair decoration like a silver waterfall hanging to their cheekbone, and their rich kimonos of gold-edged red and green reminded me of Christmas.

One thing I adored about all the temples/shrines that I've seen so far is that they're surrounded by lush woodland that vibrates with the perpetual percussion of cicada. Here and there on the pebbled grounds one would find the iridiscent glitter of a crushed cicada wing. The gardens around the temples offer many beautiful quiet places: ponds of koi fish, pebbled zen gardens, bamboo groves, little arched bridges, stones forming the shape of cranes, mossy rocks. Cemetries abound in the area and I wandered peacefully through the pillared headstones decorated with wooden prayer tablets and flowers.

Temple-hopping is an extreme sport in this extreme humidity. Every Japanese person has a thin towel slung around their necks to wipe away the sweat. My umbrella, hat and shades did not prevent my face and neck being slaked with salty moisture. So many steps to climb! But thank goodness for all those green-tea icecream stalls that line the way to the temples. Crushed ice drizzled with green tea is a must if one wants to survive a round of temple-madness.

Tomorrow I'm off to the Heian Shrine (some may have seen this in "Lost in Translation") and the Path of Philosophy Walk.

Hello Kitty, Hello Kyoto!

My first evening in Kyoto was magical and a most excellent start to my misadventures here. Lucky for me the day I arrived was the culmination of "Urabon," commonly known as O-Bon, which is an annual Buddhist ritual to help ease the suffering of souls in the next world. O-Bon ends with the floating of lanterns on the river and the Gozan Okuribi (Bonfires) that light the way back to the other world.

Last night in the Arashiyama district of Kyoto, I wandered down bustling streets and passed by charming shops selling fans, dragonfly hankies, slippers and kimonos (I purchased a soft pink butterfly fan to match my pink 50s polka-dot dress). Everyone was heading to the river to partake in the festivities, and many men, women and children were dressed in traditional robes, kimonos and wooden sandals. It was an enchanting sight to watch the bobble of obis and to hear the glockenspiel clock-clock of wooden sandals on the road as we made our way to the bridge.

The bridge was thronged with crowds. On one side of the river, boats were adorned with white paper lanterns. Two of the boats steadily burned a ragged flame, like dragon's breath. On the other side of the bridge, a raised platform was strung with red paper lanterns, and from it men released white lanterns onto the water. The bobbing lamps sailed downstream in a glowing parade of warmth and light and candle-dancing.

Along the riverbank was a hubbub of kimino-clad kiddies, couples hand-in-hand, and food stalls that steamed with mostly meaty flavours. I spied many people munching baby octopus on a stick. I nibbled on potato and onion pancakes and sat by the riverside watching the lanterns float by. Above, on the opposite hillside, a bonfire in the shape of a Chinese character was lit (meaning "strength" apparently). This was one of five such bonfires - it was rather reminiscent of the lighting of the beacons in the Lord of the Rings, minus hobbits, dwarves etc.

Rub-a-dub-dub

One of the homely highlights I've experienced so far is the Japanese bath.

In my hotel, bath-times are set three times a day. One dresses in a rather elegant blue cotton robe, locks up one`s precious things in the locker, then heads to the bathing room which is communal. There are several shower stalls, each equipped with a plastic stool for sitting on and a tub for splashing about, a 'bath' tap and a handheld showerhead thingy.

The rule is that you shower and rub all your stinky bits clean before hopping into the bath. The bath is for soaking purposes only. It's just like the Ginseng Baths in Kings Cross, or other Asian-style baths. Due to Osaka stinky weather, my showers have been ice-cold, then for fun I've hopped into the splendidly huge bath-tub (fits about 10) for a soak in the hot water. I follow this up with a cold spray from the showers, then I'm on my merry way. The hot bath was esp good after Summersonic, where my back became quite achy-breaky due to unusual positions maintained during Brett- and Ian-hysterics.

O sake, Osaka!

This is my third day in Osaka. I\m staying in a dodgy downtown area, although the hotel is clean and comfy. My room is about the size of an office cubicle farm with tatami mats and futon. Simple but very noice. It has a fridge so have stuffed it full of cheap food from a nearby 100yen shop: noodles, noodles, noodles, chocolate digestive biscuits, fruit, donuts and coffee in a soda can. When I first emerged from the subway, I was confronted by a few leering men and a man urinating onto a main traffic intersection. The whiff and humidity were reminiscent of India, minus the cows, general pollution and poverty.

The area around my hotel is surrounded by labyrinthine alleyways and arcades, decorated with fake pink blossoms and packed with heaving shoppers and cyclists. Imagine shoppers in the Strand Arcade in Sydney whizzing up and down on bikes and parking their bikes out the front of shops - yep, this happens here. Many of the bikes are very retro, 50s style and look very pretty parked outside the flapping curtained doorways of noodleshops and bars. I stole into a quiet bar where I snacked on agedashi tofu and watched the world go by ...

Today I'll be taking a stroll in Tennoji Park and then perhaps off to Spa World which features water slides, Asian and European-style spas.

Then tomorrow I;m off to Kyoto for a week where I'll endeavor to post in more detail.

Jamata!

I"m feeling Summersonic ...

Hallo Kiddies! {}
First post from Osaka is simply summersonic: yesterday I spent the afternoon swanning about in the sticky Osaka humidity listening to some of my fave bands and discovering how much Japanese kiddies really dig Britpop. In Australia this brand of music only received flash-in-the-pan attention which was quickly overtaken by fuzzy guitar band SOCAL shite and over-hyped Oz pub rock. But in Japan, every 12 year old knows the lyrics to 'She Bangs the Drums' and every boy thinks Brett Anderson's androgenous style is very cool. At the festival there was a 'Britpop Backpack' competition where the prize was a mod mini decorated with the Union Jack. Anyhoo, here are the highlights of the fest...

The Tears
For those who don't know, The Tears are a new band featuring formerly estranged Suede guitarist Bernard Butler and lead singer Brett Anderson. Rock comparison: reunion of Marr and Moz of The Smiths.

Thousands of suede-tears fans packed the Sonic Shed, where I was squished amongst many petite, screaming and equally squished Japanese girls and boys * who do boys like they're girls who do girls like their boys * five rows back from the front. Had splendiferous view of Bernard Butler as he sneaked onto the stage and bowed to the audience to rapturous orgasmic screaming. Ol Bernard pretty much looks like the Bernard of Suede days, except now equipped with double-chin and flabby arms *eek!* He wore the same rainbow-coloured guitar strap of his younger days, and a black and white stripey T. Still a charmer * swoon *

Brett of course minced onto the stage last, wearing jeans and a black T, his hair cropped short but still owner of a proud fringe - which he flicked once or twice in my general direction. I was pleased to see that he basically looked as glam as the olde days with chiselled cheekbones, gauntish face etc. His singing performance was outstanding and ala Love and Poison vid, he performed lots of erotic hip-swinging and microphone cord whipping and animal dancing which titillated the crowd no end. Songs included their poppy hit "Lovers", the slick and gritty "Lowlife", the lovers-in-the-gutter anthem "Refugees" and the plaintive ballad "Ghost of You", which did indeed bring a tear to my eye. Also an unknown suede song was fished out, "Apollo 13".

Bernard's guitar was rich, layered, twisting sound and the combiantion of his guitar and Brett's shrieking gor-blimey falsetto was very nostalgic and amazing. Was rather annoyed that I wasn't at the very front as Brett came down to greet the crowd and was subsequently groped. I only glimpsed his fringe between a forest of grasping hands. I felt sorry for all those teeny tiny Japanese girls getting extremely squished in the rush to touch His Brettishness.

In short: bravo boys, and try not to break up *again*!

Ian Brown

For those who don't know, Ian was the lead singer with the Stone Roses.

I was warned back home that Ian is tone-deaf in a live performance, and this is true. But as the crowd sang almost every word to his songs, this didn't seem to matter. I was rather gobsmacked that he played mainly Stone Roses songs and only four or five of his solo stuff. So had a most excellent wander down memory lane to 'She Bangs the Drums', 'Waterfall' and 'I wanna be adored'. Many of the fans had 'I wanna be adored' temporary-tattooed onto their arms.

Ian Brown looks like a cross between a monkey and that hairy bloke from Supergrass. He aslo has scarily gaunt cheeks ala Spike from Buffy. He wore tracky dacks and every time he said 'arigaaaaatoooo' the crowd went mad with the chant 'Eeee-A! Eee-A!', that is 'Ian! Ian!'.

Other highlights

included The Little Flames, Boy - a sexy rock outfit who were a mix of Rolling Stones meets Stone Roses meets Oasis, but better than Oasis - and Interpol. Caught the last three songs of Duran Duran who were good but absolutely past it ... Simon Le Bon is quite the fatty, as are his band, and they were all wearing suits in the sticky humidity. Their stylishly gelled hair had practically melted and flopped about uncontrollably over their faces, and they were all getting puffed out playing guitar. Interestingly, when the Durans played a weepy ballad, the crowd united as one by raising their illuminated mobile phones ala candles, and waved to and fro under the romantic Vodafone light.

Due to clashing timetables, I missed Echo and the Bunnymen and most of Nine Inch Nails - where I only caught Closer. Damn the lack of brackets on this keyboard.

All in all a jolly good show and I await with bated breath the next arrival of boy bands from Britain *brettbrettbrettbrett*


{} Pedant"s note ... due to confusing keyboard which is a combination of hirigana and English, my posts from Japan might be very badly spelt or punctuated. Take note that my editorial skills have not diminished overnight.

Dooooin' the Pagan Rock

Just returned from a spiffarama visit to ye olde City of Churches where Sir S and I sipped ales at the Exeter, nibbled on smelly cheeses from the Smelly Cheese Shop and generally ooohh'd and ahhh'd as we observed diverting things at the Central Markets, such as the amazing Mushroom Stall: big ones, small ones, ones as big as yer head; old-fashioned sweet-shops with kaleidoscopic cartwheel lollipops and twenty jars of different types of licorice; nut shops, olive shops, and shops selling extravagant English things like pheasant pate, rabbits and great big jam jars of goosefat. It would be most reasonable if Fat Lady Jennifer Paterson's ghost wandered the Markets' cholestrol-clotted aisles with a phantom fag in one hand and a venison and hare tart in the other.

Amid the feasting, Sir S and I attended a gig on Saturday night where we witnessed the tragical tragedy of the folksy Spiral Dance (henceforth "Spiral Dags") and the tragic splendour of English goth paganites Inkubus Sukkubus (henceforth "Ink Sukk"). Support act Spiral Dags hogged the stage and ran over time with their flummoxing flutings, gyrating guitars and their Dreaded Piano Accordion from Hell. But worse, much much worse - were their fans, which consisted of many a 55+ woman draped in Tree of Life velvetry, tizzy long hair and eyes pencilled so thick with black eye-liner that a timetravelling playwright could use it as a handy inkwell. Most of the men were also 55+ and many donned white shirts with frilly collars which frothed at the throat and foamed at the wrists; hairlines were commonly receded and gathered together in an indequate ponytail which wisped about over their velvet waistcoats. As a gesture to the band, most of Spiral Dags daggy fans coordinated themselves into an actual Spiral Dance, that is, gathering in several circles before the stage and skipping about in the style of islander nymphs in The Wickerman.

At this point Sir S and I were overcome by that feeling of trepidation and horror that one discovers when arriving at a dismal English country village to find that all punters at the local disco have on their face a porcine nose and perhaps a packet of fresh sausages tucked under one arm. In other words, we didn't feel particularly local.

Strangely, by the time Ink Sukk hit the stage at 10pm, the crowds thinned down to around 50 people from approx 100 (!!!), although unfortunately many of the Spiral Daggette Punters remained, with a smattering of young goths and punks for good measure. Ink Sukk were darkly splendid, cheerful and slightly squiffed. The vocalist - Candia - was most beautiful in a shimmering sea-green oriental-style corset, short black skirt and mesh. She and the band were tucking into Jagermeister between songs so it was unsurprising that Candia slipped over and landed flat on her back on more than one occassion. Sir S and I were rather embarrassed by the fact that half of the small crowd had vanished and that the audience space was only a quarter-full of punters. Ink Sukk didn't seem to mind - perhaps they were only in Adelaide for a holiday with the Spiral Dags?

The evening came to a gusset-induced climax when several of the Spiral Daggette Punters decided to down their knickers and unleash them on an unsuspecting guitarist. First, a skimpy G-string was slung quoit-like over the guitarist's instrument. Then came a gigantic pair of what appeared to be MAN's underpants (white Y-fronts as big as a tent). Then two bras - one in particular very matron-like and reminiscent of a parachute - were launched onto the stage. The guitarist shouldered this burden well and was a good sport (although a glint of terror in his eyes was duly noted). I'm not sure if he left the venue in one piece, as the Spiral Daggettes seemed particularly ravenous.

Ink Sukk rokked. But Spiral Dags were ... memorable? At least they did not fullfil Miss Violet's prediction of performing a cover of the Time Warp (as they have done in the past). Save Our Souls!

Home Sweet Hiroshima

Just a quick post to say that my new home in Japan will be in Hiroshima! I move into the apartment in late August and have two flatmates.

Can't wait to buy a bike and go cycling around my new town!

Toodle-pip,
Miss E

Grandmaster Flash has landed

Poor discombobulated Flashy!

Sent off on a series of conveyor belts from Virgin Freight to flight DJ 416, Flashy didn't have time to wave a doleful goodbye before losing his aerial virginity. He was so shocked to be wrapped up in a fluffy pink towel inside a cage that not even a melancholic meow nor a nervous twitch of his whisker could be mustered. Sir S and I fretted mid-way through the flight as we encountered some rough turbulence and envisaged Flashy bouncing about in cattle-class below us, an encaged whirlwind of black-and-white fur, teeth and claws, eviscerating any Virgin staff who tried to comfort him as his ears went pop.

When he was collected at the other end, there was no drama or meow festival. Instead the Grandmaster simply stared out curiously upon the City of Churches.

Once settled into his rooms, Flashy retired under Miss Ember's Olde Beknobbed Bed, never to be seen until the next morning. Slight progress has been made: Grandmaster Flash has now extended his territory from Under The Beknobbed Bed to Under The Bed In The Guest Room and Into The Lav In The Laundry.

There is so much yet to conquer! And the scratching opportunities stretch out for miles ...

Hello, Sailor!

Here is a snap of me from late last year at a DarkSoc 1920s picnic. As I dress mainly in dark clothes or rich colours, it was different to experiment with white. A common symbol of the 20s is the flapper: long, looped beads, fingerwaved hair and saucy evening dresses. The nautical, sailor-style gal is often forgotten! This maritime theme celebrates 20s and 30s style day and leisure wear, and is much fun to explore. Unfortunately, the bell-bottom white trousers I'm wearing can't be seen in full (they are huge and can sweep up puddles).

All the way with Tar-get

My new jobbie in Japan requires a corporatesque wardrobe. For people who know me, this means "EEEEK!". How can Miss Ember sacrifice her excellent array of hats? How can Miss Ember deflower the redness of her locks? How can Miss Ember busfreight all those space-cadet-chunkster boots back to Adelaide, where they will be entombed in storage for the next year or so and will not grace the neon wilderness of Osaka or Tokyo in their chunkster finery?

The answer is: bollocks to that! I'll just have to incorporate my own alternative twist into my grey officewear. Firstly, my generous workmates helped me out by giving me a spiff Quick Brown Fox voucher, with which I acquired:

* smart grey pinstriped 40s style skirt;
* cute black skirt embroidered with simple white flowers;
* swinging 60s style black-and-white chequered skirt with black velvet band around waist;
* Victorian blouse with high collar, minimal lace and black velvet bow.

I also splurged on a pink black polka dot 50s summer dress and tie-around pink Japanese-style top, so I can confront Brett Anderson's Fringe in style (it is stinking hot in Osaka with higher humidity than Sydney, according to our favourite weather announcer, Anton Eanis, who goes by other names that won't be mentioned here).

And then I discovered Tar-get. In my opinion, this shop delivers the cheap goods for the workin' gal. Some of my purchases included:

* a glam black cardigan with diamonte buttons;
* a glam white shirt with diamonte buttons at the cuffs;
* a stylish black Chinese-style shirt with belted and Chinese-coin-style buckle.

And more. Yay for Tar-get! We bow down and light several joss-sticks in honour of your archery-board-shaped icon.

Farewell Flummery

So many goodbyes, Auf Wiedersehen Pets and toodle-pips! From my Festival of Farewells last week, to dinner at the yummy Harvest and various drinky-poo-poos, it's time to head to my hometown for the last hurrah.

Today I'm flying high with Sir S in a little red Virgin plane to the City of Churches, for the final round of "byieees" with various locals. Another element of our mission is to relocate our pussykins, Grandmaster Flash, to his retirement villa in legoland suburbia. No more will he have to cower under the thunder of low-flying planes and meow plaintively during the infamous Pea and Ham Pause; no more will the cross-eyed Siamese cat of the Back Lane serenade him from the balcony with its shrilly caterwauling, sneak into the house and hump his favourite cushion at an awkward moment.

Instead, the Grandmaster can savour the acreage of space in my parents' home: two spare rooms, a rumpus room, and - gosh - his own study. What more could a grumpy black-and-white cat desire (besides more cushions for his harem?)

My time in Adelaide will be filled with high society and glamorous gala evenings and other divine things, including:

* buying my fave coffee and marinated ricotta/mushrooms/olives from the sumptuous Central Markets;

* swanning about Rundle Street and getting squiffed at the Exeter (Excreter) and Crown and Anchor (Cranker) hotels, plus a brief sojourn to the Apothecary for absinthe adventures;

* entertaining relatives at the relly-bash function rooms of choice, the Golden Grove Tavern bistro, with the best all-you-can-eat salad bar since Sizzler (including dubious chocolate mousse);

* bracing myself for a night of pagan rock and rugby (in that order) starting with Sprial Dance and Inkubus Sukkubus (a four hour show with 30 minutes interval - almost like a Bollywood short film festival, minus choreographed outbursts of song and dance from the punters, bouncers and cleaning staff) and then All Blacks v South Africa, where I will swoon over five-second shots of Doug Howlett fiddling with his heavenly curls on the sidelines.

Then it's whizz-bang back to Sydney for three days of packing hysteria before I go up-diddly-up and crash-land in Osaka, sushi-side.

Most importantly, there is a mere 11 more sleeps until Brett Anderson's Fringe.

Bookish Diversion

Snitched from Miss Violet. Unfortunately I had to cheat and refer to a NON-fiction book, as most of my novels are confined to dusty boxes in storage.

1. Take first five novels from your bookshelf.
2. Book 1? first sentence:
History can be simply horrible.

3. Book 2? last sentence on page 50:
The insect swooped down upon her, and she shrieked, covering her head with her arms.

4. Book 3? second sentence on page 100:
It had been an odd sort of week for them before Saturday, as day-girls going back and forth to school each day.

5. Book 4? next to the last sentence on page 150:
The door slid open all the way, and they were inside Earl's Court.

6. Book 5? final sentence of the book:
But dreams are strange things, and none of us but the King of All Night's Dreaming can say if they are true or not, nor of what they are able to tell any of us about the times that are still to come.

7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph.

The door slid open all the way, and they were inside Earl's Court. The insect swooped down upon her, and she shrieked, covering her head with her arms. It had been an odd sort of week for them before Saturday, as day-girls going back and forth to school each day. History can be simply horrible. But dreams are strange things, and none of us but the King of All Night's Dreaming can say if they are true or not, nor of what they are able to tell any of us about the times that are still to come.

9. Name your sources
Horrible Histories: the Slimy Stuarts
Black Lotus by Laura Joh Rowland
Charlotte Sometimes by Penelope Farmer
Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman
The Sandman: The Dream Hunters by Neil Gaiman and Yoshitaka Amano
10. Post to your blog.