Dragons, Birthdays & Bananas

On 9 August, Sir S celebrated his birthday with me here in Ol’ Hirosh. After a decadent breakfast of scrambled eggs, cakes and hot coffee, we went off to the talkies to watch Studio Ghibli’s Gedo Senki, an animation of Ursula Le Guin’s Earthsea Quartet. Although the dialogue was overly incomprehensible (but marvellous listening comprehension practice, for example, I was chuffed when I understood Ged saying “he was having bad dreams”), the flick was fabulous with its stern, silent Sparrowhawk and its immense dragon of shingled, sparking mail. A dazzling review can be read in Sir S’s chronicle.

In the late evening, we picnicked in the Peace Park near the riverbank, the famous Dome shadowy and streaked in orange light. Then we indulged in a spot of frog-watching by the Peace Bell, where a whole flummery of frogs hopped and skipped and whacked in a strange chorus upon the lilypads (some froggies sounded like the clack-clack of rain-sticks, others trilled or popped in a most unfroglike manner). With torches twitching and knees grazed upon the stone, Sir S and I scooped up a frog or two to become more closely acquainted. One sat on my lap for a full minute, then hopped onto my hand before croaking “sayonara” and plopping back into its stagnant waters. Several rather frenzied froggy copulations were spotted, indeed too unseemly for the pages of this journal. It was indeed a daring exploit and I was flushed with delight having held a hopsome, damp frog on the palm of my hand (thankfully not in the throes of amphibious shaggery).

Then we set about playing with sparklers that Sir S had acquired from the local shop. The little ones, tipped with pink feathery paper, fizzled like little tangles of orange in the dark, and the bigger ones sparked blue and pink. Sir S and I twirled them about as if in a circus (being most careful not to singe one’s frock in the process). The smoulder of the sparklers reminded me of bonfire nights in England and penny-for-the-guy, and those horrific telly commercials about the little girl who picked up the discarded but still-red-hot sparkler and was left with a raging welt on her palm – the stuff of nightmares (as well as that AIDS grim reaper commercial and Wurzel Gummage – eek!).

Once the last Chu-hi* was glugged down, we packed up our things and wandered home along the river and its neon strip of Love Hotels, featuring the herbaciously-inspired Hotel Parsley, as well as Hotel Tomato and Hotel Banana. As previously mentioned on this blog, amorous couples escape the confines and appalling acoustics of the family home in exchange for a discreet pay-by-the-hour room at indiscreet hotels, lit up with neon tomatoes and named after mundane items on one’s grocery list. As we passed Hotel Banana (its sign proclaiming “get relax for your body”), a great banging came from within its yellow walls, and a shrill squeal – interspersed with mouse-like squeaking – issued forth upon the sultry evening air like a banshee wail of Mariah Carey-like pitch. Most diverting!

*Cheap, 100-yen alcopop-style beverage available in a variety of unusual flavour combinations such as Aloe & Muscat, and my fave, Acerola & Rosehip.