Reflections on a new apaato

I have now enjoyed several weekends in my soon-to-be new home. Sir S is already snugly esconced there with his kotatsu to keep him warm on lonely nights.

Apaato things that I like:

• Paper, or Shoji, screens that cover the lounge and dining room windows; a paper-screen door covers the large bedroom windows. They lend a very clean, simple and traditional Japanese look to the house, which of course back in the mother country costs a fortune from the likes of Made in Japan stores et al. The radiance of morning light glowing behind the paper is a pretty thing to wake up to and inspires one to arise at once (most of the time).
• Tatami mats: the bedroom and loungeroom have tatami mats and thus, because of this, give an immediate Eastern flavour to the house. Not all Japanese houses have tatami rooms (my current abode has tatty carpet concealing paint-bespattered tatamis) and mats usually have to be replaced after a few years. If our famous neko-chan, Grandmaster Flash, was with us (instead of swanning about his Adelaidean retirement villa with his harem of local felines) he would take utmost delight in clawing the tatamis in a manic, gleeful orgy of scratching, shredding and claw-snagging. In fact, Sir S and I amused ourselves with visions of returning to the house from work whereupon we would find His Flashyness rooted to the spot, all four paws hooked into the tatami in such a distressed state that only the Fire Department could safely detangle him from the floor.
• The view: the apartment overlooks a river that is lined with reeds and Triffid-like shrubs sprouting yellow flowers. Many a fat fish can be seen leaping from the water like an Australian from the Glenelg Jetty. Fine, regal hawks wheel over the river, and sleek herons stalk the reeds there.
  

Apaato things that challenge one:

• the water-heating system: in the bathroom there is a curious, cream-coloured box that is covered in knobs and dials. In order for hot water to steam forth, one has to fiddle with knobs to light the gas, then twiddle further to maintain the purple flame that quivers behind a small, smudgy glass panel, then diddle with dials to get the water pressure just so. Now that I have the hang of the thing, it ain't so bothersome, but I expect curses once the snow is banked up outside, the temperatures are plummeting and one's bits are frozen blue whilst trying to light the gas.
• the ledge of doom: as Sir S previously plumbed in a post lavatorial, the bowl of many Japanese toilets has built into it a sloped ledge - like a ski field - where hapless deposits land and refuse to budge unless maniacal flushings and wavings of the Fearsome Brush are executed. A quick dash to the lav can thus turn into a 20-minute saga of curses and de-ledging.
• astonishing resemblance to houses in The Ring and The Grudge: yes, with tatami mats, sliding doors, paper screens and substantial futon closets aplenty, one expects Sarah Michelle Gellar to leap out at any moment and claim she's a social worker who wants to look after your mother. In fact, one can terrify future houseguests with viewings of these films followed by a lockdown in the tatami closet room (mwahahaha). However, the whole effect of the climactic telephone ring will be ruined by the fact that our phone is actually in the shape of a plastic blue pig.* I suppose this latter point could be extremely reassuring and cast out all fears of blue boys in closets by replacing them with images of ridiculous blue pigs going "brrrrrring!".

* This is true. When Sir S ordered a telephone, he received a plastic blue pig. One talks into its bottom, and listens to its head. The trotters can be irritating, as they dig into one's lughole and chin rather bitingly.