Taisho Roman Art

Back in Matsue, yesterday I visited the Shimane Art Museum with Miss C and company to see an exhibition of Takehisa Yumeji, an artist of the Taisho Roman period (1912-1926). On arrival to Nippon in Kyoto, I first glanced his artwork whilst wandering the back streets in the temple areas. Many postcards featured his doe-eyed muses either in kimono, with black cats, or 1920s cloche hats and knee-length skirts. I like the combination of traditional and modern styles in his work.

Hiroshima ahoy!

Had a rip-roaring time in ol' Hirosh, meeting up with old friends and revisiting fave places. For the first few days, I stayed with fellow schoolmistress Miss M and her lovely mother and sister at her family home, tucked away in the hills. Staying with Miss M and her family proved to be a gourmet festival, for the family are ardent cooks and have a library of books where Jamie Oliver and Nigella are happily nestled against tomes of Japanese cookery. As well, they have an extensive vegetable garden where the family grows eggplant, pumpkin, okra, tomatoes, herbs and many other edible leafy rootages. On the first evening I savoured a scrumptious meal of tempura, and on the second evening we gobbled up delicious chirashizushi (scattered sushi with eel and prawns), tai sashimi (red snapper), boiled eel served with plum and miso sauce, pickles and tofu. We also tucked into a dreamy lemony salad of egg, potato and avocado. Oishikatta desu yo!

Went to adored vintage shoppe Qrover and picked up a bronze-velvet dress in the Chinese style, while Miss M bought some 50s style scarves. The friendly staff remembered me from my many visits last year and gave me a stash of vintage cards. Miss M and I also paid a visit to my fave temple, Mitaki, where I donged the bell and swatted at insects.



Sir S joined me for my last two days in Hirosh, and we visited various eateries and drinking salons with the charming Mr M, the riotous Crazy Aya and the delightful Miss Y, as well as visiting the cheerfully-named LovePop Cafe with the equally cheerful Miss A. We also visited the Black Pearl for a hearty rum with (now that I think about it) the nautically-named Mr Anker.

I miss that town very much, and it was lovely to visit again. Hurrah for good company and much-loved Hiroshima!

Imminent Talkie: Atonement

Recently squizzed a fab preview of the film "Atonement" based on the book (spoilers ahoy!) by Ian McEwan. The book was a rivetting read, but due to the shocking actions of the main character, it left me angry and rattled on finishing, and I was quite restless for a week after reading it. Have learned that the most elegant and willowy Keira Knightley is starring in this film. A bonus of the film will be admiring Miss Knightley's 1930s wardrobe which, from these pics, looks simply divine!

A Flapper's Summer Essentials

Here in ol' Nippon, summer can get frightfully hot and the humidity is even beastlier, as if one has been glazed in honey and set next to the melting eclairs on the top shelf at Renee's Butler Cafe. It is essential that every fashionable young thing has equally fashionable summer defences with which to wage war upon the heat, namely:

1. A parasol. In the Antipodes, which boasts a fiercer summer, I tried this tactic, only to be stared at so viciously by passers-by that I felt like a pretentious gooseberry. But here in Japan, every woman wields a parasol to fend off the rays. I recommend several: a frilly, decadent one for dressier wear; a plain black one that matches every outfit, and a colourful one to complement a fave suit. Parasols with a subtle flower-print underneath look stunning when the sunlight illuminates the flowers from behind.

The parasol pictured was purchased at Gothic Lolita shoppe Baby, the Stars Shine Bright! and depicts the story of Little Red Riding Hood, or "Ridding Hood", which makes me think of young gal with a hood complex, who gallavants about the countryside ridding the place of wretched red hoods! Master Samuel was somewhat perplexed by the ending. He remarked: "Does the wolfy fellow fall down the well, or do he and Red have a baby and live happily ever after down the gurgler?!"





2. A fan. The sensu or folded fan is more convenient than the uchiwa or paddle variety, as it can be easily stowed in one's handbag. The uchiwa fan is fab if wearing a yukata, as it can be slipped under the back of one's obi and look very fetching from behind, but they are generally cumbersome when shopping, dancing etc, however most useful for swatting insects. The sensu fan adds a certain delicacy to the hand and wrist, and can be used as an effective device of flirtation for the doe-eyed flapper behind which one can peep and bat one's eyelids in gamine fashion. I bought a Kiki's Delivery Service fan with black-flower-and-Jiji-the-Cat detail. A tiny Jiji dangling ornament hangs from the fan.



3. A sweat-towel. A flannel that often masquerades as a dainty handkerchief with which to dab away the perspiration from one's nosie, forehead and neck. Many sweat-towels are decorated with popular characters. Hello Kitty ones are usually quite fun, often a deep purple with black trim. My own include a Euro-kitsch hankie (featuring hedgehogs, deer and squirrels dancing about toadstools) and a few brand name ones picked up as freebies from gothique boutiques.

Next stop: Kobe and Osaka

After the Tokyo leg, I caught the express to Kobe where I met up with old colleague, Master Samuel, who took me on a grand tour of Kobe's streets, shopping arcades and parks. We meandered through Chinatown and paused for a pistachio icecream. As we ate, we watched an old man with his pet squirrel monkey, the latter hopping up a tree-trunk, then nestled against its owner's ear and twittered into it incessantly about monkey-ish topics of the day. We also wandered the sombre memorial parks to the Great Hanshin Earthquake of 1995. Portside, one can find a terrible scar along the prom there, where concrete slabs are rented to pieces and several London-style streetlamps lurch crookedly in opposite directions. The waves lap at the ruins as ferries speed by. Later, we took a ride on a ferry to admire the port and take in the sea air.

The next day, we rendezvoused early with Mistress Katherine in Osaka, and headed to a flea-market at Shintennoji Temple (pictured). This temple market is a delight for the scavenger or treasure-seeker: it was packed with stalls selling old kimonos, fans, secondhand parasols, Japanese antiques and general odds-and-sods. Even scythes were abundant. Mistress K pondered the parasols and we leafed through the yellowed, frail paper of discarded uchiwa fans (shaped like a paddle). K settled on a most elegant parasol fringed with lace while Master Samuel ogled the farming implements. I came away with a kitsune bell: a small, ceramic bell in the shape of a white fox's head, whiskered in gold. The weather was stifling, so we ensured there were many stops for refreshments, fan-paddling and dabbing of the sweat-towel against one's glowing brow.

Later, we meandered through the labyrinthine America-mura, a network of tight alleyways lined with fashionable shoppes, bohemian nooks, cool cafes and teahouses. Over lunch, we watched the bright young things swan by and I have noticed that in both Osaka and Kobe, couples dress in a complimentary fashion, with near-matching accessories and the same colours and patterns. Dropped into a random gothique boutique, where I purchased further supplies of Pillarbox Red which should see me through the remaining summer hols. Finally, we stopped in an English bookshop, Random Walk, where I picked up Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction, which I swear I've read before but enjoyed reading it again. Adored the pesky swans and the spot-on modern cultural references (babyboomers renovating a piggery; 30-something living in loft apartment with glass-brick lav and numerous credit cards maxed out). Adrain always makes me chortle out loud in public!

Shall we two-step?

On Saturday night I attended dark dancehall Club Walpurgis tucked away east-side in the silent corporate catacomb of Shibuya. I wore especially my newly acquired Tokyo garments: a ragged white draped shirt from Black Peace Now and an equally ragged, layered black skirt featuring a white motif of Alice, a playful kitten and a gun (picked up in Harajuku for a measly sum - yay sales!), with purple flower-patterned stockings and convenient kitty-cat clubbing purse. The basement club was fondly nostalgic of goth clubs of old: glowing candles at every table and all along the bar, many a white drapy thing suspended from the ceiling, artily strung fairy lights and a flickering vampire silent projected on the wall in between old reels of glam and goth '80s bands.

The music was of the darker, swishier variety, such as the Sisters of Mercy, Bauhaus, Siouxsie, The Cure etc etc, with some bleep thrown in. In between two-stepping, I enjoyed watching the flick "Nosferatu: The Phantom of the Night" and thought that Isabelle Adjani was most beautiful as the tragic, pale-faced heroine (below). I *must* watch this movie proper!



The regulars at the dancehall were very friendly. Several people approached me and chatted for a wee while. There was the affable host and gramophone twiddler of the club, Zin, who thanked me for coming (!) to their "anniversary party" bash. A very polite chap! He seems to be quite legendary around the dark dance halls, having started one of Tokyo's earliest goth clubs way back around '83 and, as some of the ladies of the dark told me, is lead vocalist with a super rock band. I also became acquainted with Miss M, a fellow editor, who proclaimed that the Japanese obi is far more torturous than the Western corset (the latter of which she was wearing), and the lovely Miss A of the Many Stripes, a very vivacious gal who revealed she is obsessed with Australia and The Church, and that she is friends with the members of Dandelion Wine, who recently played a gig here. I don't know their music well, but it was rather amusing because some friends are quite avid fans of theirs and at this news I felt quite discombobulated, especially because I was surrounded by English-speaking Japanese, who were all dancing the two-step to the Sisters, but I was in Japan! It was most topsy-turvy after several hours of dancing and chatting to emerge into a Tokyo dawn!

Of hosts and hedgehogs

On Saturday night I visited the Kabuki-cho night district in Shinjuku. At one time, it was intended that kabuki theatres would be built here, and although these plans were scrapped, the name stuck. Kabuki-cho, like most night districts in Japan, is a tangle of narrow alleys and backstreets, with venues and shops as diverse as hippy clothing stores, florists, host and hostess bars, expensive and classy restaurants, cheap yakitori and hole-in-the wall eateries.

I came across a huge billboard of host bars featuring small portraits of the various hosts in their fully coiffed finery. I also spotted a host of hosts, who looked very similar to these dandies:


I also wandered into a pet shop that sells baby albino hedgehogs! I squeaked in shock when I saw the small, spiny pale creature snuffling over a piece of carrot. I am convinced The Albino Hedgehog is a tip-top name for a pub.



n.b. Host pic from the doco "Tale of an Osaka Love Thief" - peruse previous post and *do* check out the doco for an insight into a lesser known aspect of Japanese culture!

From harems to Hiroshige

Had a delightful morning on Saturday. I arose early to a cooler, cloudier morning. So lacking was the scorching heat and humidity of previous days that I dispensed with my fan and left my parasol hanging on the hatstand. It has been so hot in Japan this past week that many passengers have swooned in the stuffy subways, forcing fellow passengers to dash ice-cold Thorpedo over their heads and slap them about with uchiwa fans in order to revive them.

I arrived at Ueno Park before the galleries opened in order to avoid the crowds. However, the crowds had the same idea, and were already forming queues at 9am. I wandered momentarily about the wooded parts of the park and enjoyed the refreshing shadows of the trees and the constant gnawing of cicadas upon the air.

First I visited the Tokyo Metropolitan Museum of Art to see "Ottoman Treasures from the Topkapi Palace". There I admired many an opulent turban ornament, harem coin belt, jewelled swords and lanterns and beautiful gilded copies of the Koran. My eyes were agog at the amount of rubies and emeralds everywhere, as well as the bathing shoes that women of the harem used. Forerunners of platforms, these wooden sandals were precariously fitted with two extremely tall heels that elevated the wearer above the water (I suppose to be used during pre-bathing washing, along with their divinely elegant pouring bowls) and were decorated with mother of pearl and silver coins. There were also embroidered bath towels and exquisite make-up boxes and rosewater vessels. It was most fun to visualise the secret and sensual world of the harem and to ponder about the original owners who once used these objects in daily life.



Then I bent my steps towards the University of Fine Arts and Music for two exhibitions: "The Mural Art of Kotohira-gu Shrine" and "Hiroshige's One Hundred Famous Views of Edo". I have always admired the colours and fluidity of Ukiyo-e, so I was most overwhelmed to see a whole series of Hiroshige's woodblock prints all in one go. I happily squealed aloud at the above print, "Fox Lights at New Year's Eve". This fiery festival of foxes under a star-strewn sky rendered in the Ukiyo-e style is a pure delight. I have read that in Japanese folklore, foxes emit a fiery light while shape-shifting, and this light can lead travellers astray in the same manner as the enchanting will-o'-the-wisp. I enjoy the thought of a skulk of foxes, hidden behind tree-trunks and misleading wanderers with their mischievous flaming brushes!

Polish the silverware, Jeeves!

Another interesting development in Japan's entertainment circuit is that, in addition to host bars for women (discussed below), there are also butler cafes for women (the opposite of the famous maid cafes for male patrons).

Miss B and I took an excursion to the famed Swallowtail Cafe, but alas, we couldn't gain admittance as it was fully booked! The cafe is so popular, that one must book a session in advance online which my kanji skills aren't up to yet. On arrival we noted a "Session Time" board which, in gilded lettering, showed 40-minute "appointments" that one could reserve by telephone or letter. We decided to risk it for a biscuit and try our luck at the door, whereupon we were met by a dashing gentleman in sharp black trousers and even sharper black tails. Again, this chap also had cheekbones so sharp one could neatly slice Turkish Delight on their finer points, and he had gorgeous, silken black hair draped over his shoulders and a porcelain face. I enquired if there was room for us ladies, and he apologised and fawned in the politest Japanese, little of which I could understand beyond "honourable" this and the "honourable" that, and that the cafe was full. He was still apologising and begging us to take care of our health as we proceeded down the street! Most amusing.

Besides the greeting of "Welcome home, ma'am!", eating many dainty cakes, sipping tea and being fussed over by handsome, dashing men dressed as butlers, I've heard that at a butler cafe one can choose one's farewell remark that the butler will call out to the customer on one's departure, such as:

"Off to the opera, ma'am? I'll get the car ready"
"Riding today, ma'am? I'll prepare the horses"
"I'll have the silverware polished right away, ma'am"

Love thieves

Whilst in Tokyo, I'm staying at the Super Ritz-in-Miniature Hotel. After a long day of study and sightseeing, I bend my weary feet from the station to the Ritz's champagne-fizz glass doors, and in order to get there I must weave my way through yakitori bars, izakayas, braying takoyaki sellers, boys handing out fans advertising electrical appliances and girls passing out tissue packets advertising English conversation schools with a jolly "konnichiwa!". Also present amid this regular throng are the hosts, the suave sophisticats of Japan's nightlife districts (sometimes exhibiting an edge of sleaze) who wish to tempt gals to drink with them in a festival of flattery, flirtation and dangerous liaisions with one's purse, more commonly known as the host bar.

To admire the common host "look", squiz here.

Like hostess bars for men, where men pay high prices for companionable conversation and a hand on one's knee over expensive drinks with pretty gals, the host bar is the same idea but the staff are handsome men and the customers women with yen a-plenty. One must pay an entrance fee, an extra charge for choosing a host from the catalogue, one's drinks and one's host's drinks (at inflated prices) and a table charge (private booths extra). A costly business!

The other night I myself was accosted by a stunningly handsome host, who had cheekbones so sharp one could dice a mango on them. Dressed to kill in a severe black suit, and bleached hair spiked immaculately, he appeared like some dark anime prince from the shadows. He tried to curl an arm around me and fluttered fliers in a charming manner in an attempt to usher me toward the bar's discreet entrance. I declined, but I would be most curious to go along to a host bar with a Japanese friend. That hair is a sight to behold! I must see about it.

Miss Bennett recently mentioned to me a documentary about hosts and their clients in Osaka: "The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief" by Jake Clennel (the talkie of which can be viewed here) and it is a most engaging glimpse into the glamour-in-the-gutter world of ersatz love. I recommend watching the whole talkie (it has English subtitles), although sometimes the reel is a tad jumpy.

The notion of paid companionship and conversation reminds one of the iconic geisha and the pleasure houses of Old Japan. This industry, even now, is known as mizu shobai or the water trade. It is thought this name originates from the Tokugawa period (1603-1868), when bath-houses areas expanded and offered extra services beyond a quick sponge-down and dunking. The meanings of such water associations are eloquently put here.

She serves salmon in the sacristy and cocktails in the cloister

Saint Bernard's beard - a cafe in a church, or a church cafe? Naught but a (rather gaudy) dream for Miss E (perhaps due to teenage whimsies of renovating a country church into a house, and too much time spent after midnight in dark dance halls), but here in the neon wilderness of Tokyo, there are several Ecclesiastical eateries around town. And so it was that one balmy evening, I pilgrimaged to Shibuya to the Christon Cafe with the beatific Miss B, the beneficient Miss Bennett and her sojourning saint of a mother, with the full intention of offering my prayers, wringing my rosary and bocking into some tasty tuck.

A winding staircase led one down into the darkened undercroft, and with a quick cross o'er our chests, bowed heads and a muttered prayer for mashed potatoes, we swung back the heavy wooden doors, and were astonished at the cavernous cathedral that opened up before us. To the right was an enormous stained glass window, depicting one of my fave saints, Saint Vitus (patron saint of the Charlston, the Black Bottom and the Shag, quite a liberal character for a church-going chap). In the centre of the ceiling was a pendulous, bejewelled orb, massive in size, glowing with many cameos of stained glass from which hung a chandelier, a neon pink cross suspended amid its guttering, electric candles. It was as if God had been careless packing away the Christmas decs and had overlooked a bauble (designed by L.C. Tiffany himself).

Running along one wall were private booths, curtained off dramatically in blood red, and opposite was an upper level decorated with a richly coloured painting of the Last Supper, and beneath it a long table upon which such a supper could be served. The lower level was stuffed higgledly-piggledly with relics from the Crusades and pale melancholic statues of holy countenances, and the congrega- ...er, the customers, were seated at polished wooden tables, or sat upon puffed-up, stately armchairs and chaise longues.

We were ushered over to the latter. I luxuriated in the breadth and depth of the sofa, and I happily patted its many plump cushions, and we all admired the coloured glass and the many statues of Mary and Our Lord, and the fierce gargoyles that frowned down at us from the ceiling. Usually I cringe at the thought of a theme cafe, but after reading rave reviews in fellow travellers' journals, I thought I'd see for myself and I must confess this cafe looked amazingly authentic (the terracotta floortiles being a slight flaw in the otherwise perfectly chosen decor). I learned that a few of the relics were bought from European churches that had closed their doors, and I was most disappointed not to come across the splinters of Christ's cross nor Joan of Arc's breasts, ala Blackadder.

We devoured such scrumptious offerings to make Friar Tuck salivate over his numerous chins, and I was rather partial to the Jekyll and Hyde cocktail, which was most generous with its lashings of amaretto. Delish!

Strangely, on visiting the convential conveniences, the beatific Miss B and I were horrified to discover a jarring decor choice - within the lavatorial lid, a pair of black, lacy women's underthings were encased, no doubt left behind by some tour group from Rome. Although, on reflection, perhaps it was a holy relic of Joan of Arc's after all - her holiness confirmed by her pair of Unmelting Knickers (with traces of ash).

Christon Cafe is a must-do visit and adds to the madness of a whirlwind trip to Tokyo. I plan to visit it for another sweet potion before attending local dark dance hall Walpurgis tomorrow evening, also in Shibuya.

She said, "He's not dead ..."

Sir S and I shinked all the way to Osaka for this year's Summer Sonic festival of which Brett Anderson was the highlight for Miss Ember. Strutting onstage several minutes after his musicians (including po-faced bass player, Mat Osman, of original Suede line-up), Brett's cheekbones and fringe were in fine form (although the latter was sometimes blasted skyward in an amusing cow-lick by the air-con, and *could* have been longer and more flopsome), and he himself was more slender than his Suede days, his thighs like twigs in his skin-tight jeans. He donned a grey suit jacket over a dark grey shirt (however, I was disappointed by the jeans, a pair of which I have not owned since the age of 14. Pinstripes suited you better, Mr Anderson!).*

Brett's voice was as brilliant live as it was when it first shrieked out of my stereo in the opening to "So Young" (when I was 14, the very day I incinerated my only pair of Levis). Throughout the performance, it wavered from angelic flightiness to gor blimey cockiness and drifting, lonesome refrains. For the first half, he played from his recent solo endeavour, including "Love is Dead", "Dust & Rain", and "To the Winter".

Then, to the whoopsome delight of Miss Ember, Brett launched into a symphony of Suede songs! My teeth chattered and my skin tingled in pure joy at such an event - having believed for so long that my chance to hear a Suede song performed live was as likely as finding a wand in a massive stackful of Horcruxes. When I saw The Tears back in the Nippon tour of '05, I bally well thought they would trot out a nostalgic jewel for my benefit (also because Butler and Anderson were reunited at last, making it most appropriate to dip into the back catalogue), but alack, they did not, so I thought such an event was nigh on impossible!

But gramophones were wheeled out, old records dusted down and '90s tunes were given a damn good airing, including the khaki-tinged* "Everything Must Flow", "Trash",** "Film Star", "Can't Get Enough" and "Beautiful Ones", before the set closed, almost appropriately, with "Saturday Night", with an acknowledgement from Brett that, yes, he knew it was ten past 3 in the afternoon, but tough luck matey, and anyone wishing to quibble could bally well put cheese in their ears, hit "record" on their secreted dictophones and replay it at lights out.

I was a bit miz, but unsurprised, at the absence of songs from their debut "Suede" and their other Butler-era album, "Dog Man Star",*** after having caught a whisper that songs from these albums were seldom played after Butler took French leave in '94.

The crowd went rather mad when the Suede songs jangled from the speakers, there was much hopping, tossing of sweat-towels, synchronised swaying & c, and many a loud roar of "Metal Mickey, Metal Mickey!". I was most impressed that nearly all of the Japanese fans around me were singing the lyrics word for word, and some were wiping away tears. Bravo!

A cute moment occurred when a Japanese gal at the front stammered, "I ruvv you, Brett!", and he winked at her, pouted and returned the compliment, with much squealing from said girl and almost caused an uproar from the first row.

For photos of Brett and other Summer Sonic performers, check out Wakarimashita's happy snaps here.

*I have still not recovered from Brett Anderson's fatal fashion mistake of 1999 when he donned khaki golf slacks and a daddsie blue shirt tucked in and tightly fastened with a daggy belt, as if he'd been forced to wear Gowings clothes at gunpoint: subject yourself to the horror by watching through clenched hands "Everything Will Flow". His stylist for this vid should be hunted down, and whipped over the head with an interesting array of second-hand, pinstripe garments, and perhaps some sort of root vegetable.

**I realised at the time that I was at one with the lyrics, "...the tasteless bracelets and the dye in our hair", for I was wearing battered but pretty Indian bangles around my wrists and had Manic Panic Red in my hair, so I rattled my bracelets and tossed my ruby bob with extra vigour in Mr Anderson's general direction!

***Affectionately known as "Dog Man Arse" by the scribblers at NME, for obvious reasons if you've seen the sleeve artwork (or if you're an Oasis fan with a grudge).

Cute things

Handsome Mr Hiroki gave me this cute Catbus from the classic Totoro, and I snaffled up these summer hair accessories in the sales.

Peeved about Peeves!

Having the past two weeks been obsessed with Horcuxes and Harry Potter, I have been immersed in fan forums where many a sniffling fan is currently lamenting the end of an era. It seems that many kiddies have grown up with ol' Potts and are loathe to part ways with him, despite the really bad epilogue at the end. I myself enjoyed the seventh book, was pleased to see some of my hunches proven and shed a few tears over Snape and his sad history. Talkie 5 is quite a cracker too, and I thought the reviews were rather harsh. The kids' acting is much improved and I adored Sirius. Bonham-Carter makes a terrifying Bellatrix (and quite pretty too)!

Prior to the first Potter movie, I relished the thought of seeing the naughty, anarchic poltergeist, Peeves, causing havoc, picking his nose, singing rude songs and being beastly to all the students, and at the time I thought none other than the gurning, mad face of Rik Mayall would be perfect for the part. In my Pottersome web wanderings, I actually found out that Wik *was* cast in this role and shot scenes for the first movie, but they were cut! Ye gods! How dreadfully disappointing! The discarded footage is nowhere to be found and is apparently not on the DVD extras. Poo!

I am reminded of the autographed photo of Wik that I received as a teen (now packed away in the loft Back Home) - mine was black and white, but it's the same pic as shown here. He was quite a dish in his day, despite the fish!

Furin

One of my fave things about Japanese summertime is the array of pretty furin or windchimes that tinkle under the eaves of houses, or are strung up by the window inside the house. As with yukata, fans, stationery and anything else with enough room to squeeze a summer motif on, furin are decorated with dragonflies, frogs, fireflies, goldfish & c. For handsome Mr Hiroki's birthday, Sir S and I gave him a froggy furin, complete with the image of a frog in a mid-leap over a lilypad. I have three furin in my home, the one pictured features glittering dragonflies, the others are a green shrine bell and a Kiki the Witch circle with broomstick and freefalling cat detail.

Unlike the wooden weight of Western windchimes, the weight on the average furin is a simple strip of long paper that flutters in the wind.

Crackers about hanabi

Last weekend, the hanabi or summer fireworks festivals went off with a whizz-bang and boom-boom over the vast waters of Lake Shinji. For two nights the skies erupted into flowers of fire, love hearts, upside-down smiling faces and disembodied heads of Hello Kitty which set children howling up and down the lake, whilst reassuring older brothers and sisters piped cheerfully, "daijobu yo!" ("it's wizard, really, it is!").

Things That Were Super About Hanabi in Matsue
1. The quality of fireworks was damnably good. On exploding into their traditional flower-like shape, some fireworks' falling embers changed colour into blues, greens and reds, and darted about in different directions like fireflies before burning out. Others blossomed into fiery weeping willows in the sky, and bunches of them zoomed about like playful spirits in comet-like finery.

2. The atmos. It's always jolly at hanabi. Families gather on their plastic sheets* and tuck into bentos or festival fare, including takoyaki (octopus balls - for filthy readers, note the absence of an apostrophe), ika (squid) on sticks, barbecued chicken and shaved ice drizzled with sugary flavours. The seared leathery smell of squids-on-sticks is far from appetising to Miss E, but I think the smell is a most festive one here in the Nippon, as it lingers long at many a festival, whatever the season. I also enjoyed the way the crowds ooh-ed and aaah-ed at the fireworks, and applauded after each round.

3. The clothes.
For girls and women: the summer kimono, the yukata, was donned by most. The colours are tropical and summery: orange, yellow, pink, purple and lots of sky blue. Popular patterns included fireworks, goldfish, fans, flowers, dragonflies, butterflies, waves. Some obi belts were elaborately knotted, but the plain simple bow was most common, and others used the convenient pre-tied obi. Little girls, bothered by the constriction of the obi, instead wear a loose scarf-like sash that is long, casually tied and often a bright Indian pink. Teenage gals especially, prior to the festival, made a bee-line for the photo booths of the nearby shopping arcade to get group snaps taken in their get-up. Most gals wore many a jaunty accessory, such as combs hung with little windchime replicas, and chopstick-like ornaments were impaled through tizzed hair.

For boys and men: a few yukata were worn by men. The material is rough compared with that of the women, and always more plain in colour and pattern: blues, greys, browns, blacks and lines, waves or checks. More popular with the boys and men was the casual, pyjama-like outfit jinbei. I have a pair myself, to swan about the house in during the hot weather. Very comfy! I spotted one gal at hanabi in hot pink, floral jinbei, and a young boy wore a set of lime green ones covered in traditional-style motifs of summer insects, especially ones adored (and often caught in nets) by boys - stag beetles and cicadas.

After the festival, quite a few locals were letting off fireworks willy-nilly near our house. I myself had bought a packet of sparklers (pictured). One can easily buy fireworks from the local 100 yen shoppe for local people as they are legally sold in shops here (such as the whizzing yet windy dragonflies of my previous ponder).

*Adorned with various characters such as Charmy Kitty, Mickey Mouse, Pokemon, and Donald Duck.

Scarlet fever

As I'm on hols, and no longer teaching the hordes of swotters at the Hearn, Chamberlain & Keene College of the Linguistic and Origami Arts, I am free to colour my hair whatever hue I fancy, so recently I went for a shade of Pillarbox Red mixed with a tint of Violet to prevent full-blown orange luminosity. Hurrah for brightly hued hair! Here are some rough pics (Sir S's abandoned dragon-fan providing a useful prop for hiding one's bleary-eyed, tired visage!)

Under my umbrella ...

Perhaps tsuyu or the rainy season of recent months is meddling with my brain, for I'm addicted to the catchy pop song "Umbrella" by Rihanna. I'm slightly astonished as this is a Top 40 RnB American dancehall tune, but I cannot get it out of my head! And I must say that Miss R's inverted bob is indeed quite fetching, as is the 20s gelled hair in the umbrella dance routine. Watch it on the talkies!

I do like to be beside the seaside ...

Golly, it's been a while! I've had to dust down the typewriter, add a fresh ribbon and poke out a gangly-legged spider from its webspun home beneath the keys. Cheeky blighter!

Well, since June, I've been extremely busy with final term at the Hearn, Chamberlain & Keene College of the Linguistic and Origami Arts, and now I'm on hols - a heavenly breather for two months - hurrah!

Now then, the best weekend ever was had by myself and the dashing Sir S last month at the San-in Beach Party. In fact, it was the biggest cat's meow that you're likely to find outside of the KitKat Club on a Thursday during National Devon Rex Week.

Sir S and I caught a wild ride on the Festival Motorised Jeep and arrived on dusk at the charming Kozomi Beach, tucked between the ample bosom of two green-foliaged hills on the beautiful San-in Coast, Tottori Province. With tent, overly-stuffed satchels, picnic hamper crammed with ginger ale, iced tea, cucumber sandwiches and tinned pineapple, hurricane lamp, and a Deluxe Box of Glo-Sticks in tow, we set about putting up camp in the gathering darkness. Several punters had got there before us and their tents were cheerfully pitched in a row sandy-side with a perfect view of the Sea of Japan, which hushed and lapped onto the cool sands over which we scrambled with our load.

With gusto, pegs and ropes were flung about, hurricane lamps were hoisted and swung this way and that, and hammers were banged and biffed, with the occasional cry of "Hands off my peg!" and "Is the French letter dispenser supposed to be on the outside?" & c. Once securely pegged, Sir S and I popped open the ginger stuff, wiped the sweat off our brows and surveyed our surroundings.

To the left, on the rising, was a rickety but pleasant wooden shack where people sat about on the creaking veranda drinking ales and so forth. Just behind that was an open-air music hall heaving with a vibrant collection of dancing couples. Nearby the dancing was an illumination of intriguing tents, before which dazzling wares were set about either side of their entrances.



From this hillock, and down along the sands, was a delightful pathway glimmering with paper lanterns* which led along the beach past our row of tents, to the entrance of a white marquee dubbed the "Chill-out Tent". This tent proved a most treasured resting place throughout the weekend: colourful hammocks swung in the breeze to the perpetual tinkle of windchimes, people sprawled about on the tatami mat platform and penned wishes to tie onto the wishing tree, others supped chai, read books, or snoozed. Marvellous!

Before leaving our tent for the night, I took precautions and attached several Glo-Stick bracelets to the flaps as an easy means of identification, as well as for night navigation purposes (by this time tents were being pegged up thick and fast so that our one little "street" had transformed into a village in mere minutes).

Sir S and I enjoyed a quaff or six in the rickety old shack, admired the winking ships' lights on the sea (praying North Korea's fleet were safely tucked in at home) and then took several turns on the dance floor (like the bar of the shack, the floor was very sandy indeed and no need for shoes), poked our noses into the massage tent (oo err!), the henna tattoo tent and the hookah pipe tent (with strawberry and choc-mint aromas). At the festivalgoers' mess, we had a hearty bowl of Thai curry and savoured the smells of paella and the familiar Sydney greasiness of yiros. Although many festivalgoers were Nipponese, most were Antipodean, British, American, Canadian, Brazilian, Norwegian or Middle Eastern. Some were palely Irish. In fact, it felt just like an Australian bush doof, sans bush.

The days were spent snoring in hammocks, taking a turn on the beach (damned sun!), playing frisbee in the sea and artfully rearranging my turban in the shade of my parasol as I squinted at capoeira performances and a bizarre show of American football.

The Handsome Mr Hiroki and the Charming Miss Kaori dropped in for tea, a few cucumber sandwiches and a samosa, then enjoyed a few rounds of sand 'n surf frisbeeing. The evenings were spent dancing, firework-popping, Glo-Stick twirling and splodging in the cool, dark water.

Actually, my fireworks purchase was super-fun, although a tad dangerous to boot: got myself a packet of whizzing dragonflies because they looked pretty and I was most curious about what they'd do once their jacksies were aflame. One had to place the critters on the sand, and then light their pink, protruding posteriors mighty quick before fleeing with hands firmly clapped over one's head and bunking down behind someone else's tent for cover. The effect was pure comic horror - the lit dragonfly farted up into the air (a most embarrassing sound - making Sir S blush madly into the canvas of his bunker) and then zipped forth into the night with a big "whhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeezzzz!" and a trail of sparks as it headed off over the waves, bound for hell. One must always take care, though, to check the weather conditions and make note of any backwind. On our third go, the sea breeze propelled the dragonfly from whence it came, and it went tearing over the tent village in a whizz of sparks, squeals and triumphant farting.

Also, when setting off fireworks, be careful of pale-skinned, red-tressed Irishmen doing a nude run into the waves. Damned awful shock, I tell you. Poor sods.

* Gorgeous and most simply made from a brown paper bag, inside which a scoop of sand was deposited and betopped with a wee tea-lite candle.