I can't remember learning to read English. It's just something I just knew how to do. In fact, my Mother doesn't know either. Apparently, according to family legend, my parents crept along to my first parent's evening ready to be told I was a bit, well, quiet, only to be congratulated on the fact that I could already read. I had been able to read when I started school, and no one knows how that happened. Neglected second child, anyone? Anyway, I'd always kind of taken being able to read a bit for granted. I fully appreciated that not everyone is as fortunate as me, but it's quite hard to really empathise when you have no recollection of not being able to read. That is, until I came to Japan.
Obviously, one of the inconvenient aspects of life here is that most things are rather inconveniently written in Japanese. Which doesn't look anything like English. And is quite hard to learn. I've studied Japanese for a few years now and I'm beginning to understand the basics. Out of the three alphabets (yes, that's 3 as in more than 2 but less than 4), I can read two almost completely (hiragana and katakana) and about 700 of the 20,000 Chinese characters (Kanji). Which is enough to get by and almost enough to prevent getting home from the supermarket only to find that the tin doesn't contain what I thought it said. It is, however, enough to get me into the occasional spot of bother.
Today, I trotted out into the shopping centre I work in during my lunch break (OK, so actually, I was supposed to be preparing lessons but sometimes we have to prioritise). I had decided to experiment with some new tights and there's a sock shop near our school. I got very excited when I noticed a sign that said something about 3 somethings for 1,050 yen. Bargain! So I decided a more adventurous experiment than I had originally planned and excitedly scooped up three pairs. By the way, what is it about the chance to spend more money than planned to get more things that we need that gets us so excited? Bananas. Anyway, I placed the tights on the counter thinking, "hmm, I wouldn't normally go for bum lifting tights, but when they're on special, I'd be a fool not to" only for disaster to strike. The price that appeared on the cash register (I know I should listen to the shop staff, but it's just so much easier to read the number) to be more than 2,000 yen. Something was amiss. I queried the mistake and tried to understand the woman's explanation. She even took me to the display and pointed at the sign that I had obviously misunderstood. Still none the wiser, I said I would leave it and returned to work with my tail between my legs. What a disappointment, no bargain and my reading skills suck to boot.
Later in the day, I got the Fairy Godmother to come back to the store with me to explain the sign I had misunderstood. At this point I was still slightly suspicious that the woman in the shop wasn't very smart and I was still the genius I remember from my first months of Primary school and I could have the three pairs of tights I had now decided I desperately needed. Turned out that the "something" on the sign I hadn't understood said that the tights I had wanted weren't included in the three for 1,050yen deal on offer elsewhere in the store. Sigh. I didn't like the other stuff in the store.
So, it's back to the studying and next time, I'm determined to get the bargain right. Gambarimasu!!*
* Japanese for "fight"- used for showing determination
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Why you'll never go thirsty in Japan
If you have ever ventured as far as Japan, you'll have noticed that the streets here are infested. Not with anything bad, you understand, but with the shiny happy vending machines sent from vending machine heaven. These little metal boxes pop up literally everywhere. I've seen them way out in the middle of nowhere on my pretty little island where you're hard pushed to find a cash machine that operates at any kind of convenient time. But, as long as you have cash in your pocket, you'll never go thirsty in Japan.
And there's the kicker. Because while they have a range of hot and cold coffee (yup, Japanese people do love a cold black coffee to help them through the day. Frankly I'd rather stab my eye out with a blunt instrument) they rarely have chocolate. What kind of craziness is that?! I hear ya. I rarely have a sports drink emergency, but chocolate emergencies are an almost daily occurrence. I've tried carrying an emergency supply in my bag, but I found I tended to nibble on it outside of true chocolate emergency moments so decided to stop before things got out of hand. So, clearly, I need the machine.
We recently had one installed in my little school. It was the source of a great deal of excitement and discussion. Ours is a fancy schmantsy version that has a little box on the side from which we can procure Soy joy and Calorie Mate. If you don't know what Calorie Mate is, it's the food of the chemical devil, tastes OK for about 3 seconds and then the minging chemically aftertaste kicks in and you might as well have been consuming bleach as far as I'm concerned. I can't help that the box on the side was an opportunity for emergency chocolate missed, but what do I know. (Except that many of our students are female, therefore get periods, thus PMT, which I believe would have an impact on chocolate sales. I mean, who craves a Soyjoy for heaven's sake?) Oh, and we have requested hot chocolate, not cold, that's weird. Although not as weird as the five different types of cold coffe I can choose from, none of which are any different from the hot coffee. These are not like any "iced coffe" you'll find elsewhere. When I say cold coffee, it's literally just a can of coffee that's gone cold. Gross.
Having said that, I love being able to go for a run without clutching a water bottle, safe in the knowledge that, as long as I have 150yen in my sweaty palm
(or, more usefully, in my very sexy and practical bum bag, yes, I'm one of those people), I will not go thirsty during my run. Which makes me happy.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Magic toilets- or why Japanese couples never fight about the toilet seat
I've been in Japan for over three years now and have really begun to "go native". I realised quite how much when I heard the BBC Formula 1 reporter talking about Japanese toilets and was entertained by his attitude. I should probably clarify that he was in Japan for the Tokyo Grand Pr ix, it wasn't a totally random report on toilets in the middle of a sports program. The BBC isn't that weird, at least not yet. I couldn't believe that I had forgotten that they are not like other toilet seats. They are AMAZING- Fact.
It's hard to know where to begin with the fabulousness of this fine example of Japanese technology. I guess at the beginning, and with the top of the range models.
When you go into the bathroom, the lid lifts up for you. There's even a little button on the console attached to the wall which allows men, and slightly strange women (I'm sorry if you find that judgemental, but to me, it's strange not to use the seat when you sit down) to lift the seat without touching it. How awesome is that? And the best bit (of this part anyway) is that it puts itself back down when you leave. No more finding yourself falling into the toilet in a late night toilet visit, which I didn't know happened until I read this hilarious blog post (seriously, it's so funny, it prompted a visit to my own bathroom, where the seat is always down: http://whisperingwriter.blogspot.com/2009/10/toilet-musings.html
Which begs the question, why haven't we got these in Europe, or indeed, anywhere apart from Japan. They are fantastic. I'm, convinced that the toilet seat that puts itself back down could transform modern society. Giving couples less to argue about would reduce stress, which would surely increase productivity and even possibly help boost the birth rate as couples enjoy a new understanding in their relationships (although, as Japan's population is officially getting smaller, I think my theory could die before it's even begun, but let's not let boring facts get in the way of my fantabulous sales pitch).
But, my friends, it doesn't end there. Oh no! Never underestimate the extent of Japanese technology. After the lid has lifted itself for you, you can place your delicate behind on a warm seat. Yup, no more shivering on a cold seat in winter- even in the dead of night. Amazing.
Then comes the slightly gross part, at least in my easily grossed out opinion. When you've finished your, um, business (don't make me type it out loud) you have a choice of options for washing your bum before leaving. There's a spray, which cleans a general area or a more precise jet for aiming at particular points. Now for me, this part is the downside. I personally feel toilet paper is enough, and, despite many reassurances that the spray nozzle is self-cleaning, always have the feeling that it's slightly unhygienic. Having said that, the nozzle presents hours of fun in boring hotels when you're not sitting down. Just press the button and see how far across the bathroom you can spray!
So, there you have it- the washlette, fun and useful.
It's hard to know where to begin with the fabulousness of this fine example of Japanese technology. I guess at the beginning, and with the top of the range models.
When you go into the bathroom, the lid lifts up for you. There's even a little button on the console attached to the wall which allows men, and slightly strange women (I'm sorry if you find that judgemental, but to me, it's strange not to use the seat when you sit down) to lift the seat without touching it. How awesome is that? And the best bit (of this part anyway) is that it puts itself back down when you leave. No more finding yourself falling into the toilet in a late night toilet visit, which I didn't know happened until I read this hilarious blog post (seriously, it's so funny, it prompted a visit to my own bathroom, where the seat is always down: http://whisperingwriter.blogspot.com/2009/10/toilet-musings.html
Which begs the question, why haven't we got these in Europe, or indeed, anywhere apart from Japan. They are fantastic. I'm, convinced that the toilet seat that puts itself back down could transform modern society. Giving couples less to argue about would reduce stress, which would surely increase productivity and even possibly help boost the birth rate as couples enjoy a new understanding in their relationships (although, as Japan's population is officially getting smaller, I think my theory could die before it's even begun, but let's not let boring facts get in the way of my fantabulous sales pitch).
But, my friends, it doesn't end there. Oh no! Never underestimate the extent of Japanese technology. After the lid has lifted itself for you, you can place your delicate behind on a warm seat. Yup, no more shivering on a cold seat in winter- even in the dead of night. Amazing.
Then comes the slightly gross part, at least in my easily grossed out opinion. When you've finished your, um, business (don't make me type it out loud) you have a choice of options for washing your bum before leaving. There's a spray, which cleans a general area or a more precise jet for aiming at particular points. Now for me, this part is the downside. I personally feel toilet paper is enough, and, despite many reassurances that the spray nozzle is self-cleaning, always have the feeling that it's slightly unhygienic. Having said that, the nozzle presents hours of fun in boring hotels when you're not sitting down. Just press the button and see how far across the bathroom you can spray!
So, there you have it- the washlette, fun and useful.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Funday Thursday
Thursday is my aerobics day so I thought I'd write about it. No deeper meaning.
First I should clarify, technically, it's not aerobics, it's "low impact". Or to be more precise "ロインパクト" as it's called here. Which is a nice way of saying I exercise with the old people. My working hours mean I have to exercise in the morning, which is when most people my own age are working, so I hang with the oldies of a morning. "Nothing wrong with that", I hear you say, and, for the most part I would agree with you. Except for the times when I'm sweating like a crazy person and the men and women in their seventies and eighties are leaping around like they've found the secret of eternal youth (which, incidentally, I'm convinced some of them have. I'm planning to charm it out of them over time.)
I tried a few classes before I found this one, all of which were aimed at housewives rather than retired people so, on paper at least, seemed to be a good fit. The only problem is that the more dance-based classes require some kind of skill. I just don't have that skill. I realised after a while that I'm just not very good at moving. Sloth? No problem. Coordinated movement? You're just going to have to try elsewhere. There was also the added complication that I couldn't understand the Japanese instructions and can only manage as long as I can see the teacher, which is hard when you have to twirl.
So, eventually I accepted that I would have to join the slower moving class with no twirling. I even checked about the twirling with the staff at the front desk by twirling for them and then repeating だめ (prohibited) several times. When their eyebrows returned from the ceiling, they reassured me and I confirmed my reputation as a total muppet.
The best thing about this class, other than the lack of twirling, is the teacher. She's hilarious. No need to worry if you forget the routine halfway through, so does she! And then she does this awesome dance, waving her arms around and saying "AHHHHHH!". I love it and have been known to join in the "AHHHHHH" dance (although, to be honest, I was just blindly following her and didn't realise it wasn't the actual steps...).
I guess, sometimes, the teacher feels the need for a bit of twirling but, knowing her audience, knows that it could cause untold chaos. So, instead of twirling, we shimmy. If you ever get the chance to stand in a room of elderly men and women shaking what their Momma's gave 'em, take it. It's awesome. I usually stand next to a man in his seventies during the class. I've secretly named him the "aerobics buddha" because of his constantly peaceful expression. I've seen him in kickboxing class, hula class and even just walking around the gym and he always looks so serene. Even when he's shaking it like a poloroid picture, his face looks as if he's mid-meditation. Working on my serenity is on the to-do list but I can only aspire to the Aerobics Buddha's level.
Further up the list is working on my twirling. My aim is to make it into a more youthful class before my age makes it impossible.
First I should clarify, technically, it's not aerobics, it's "low impact". Or to be more precise "ロインパクト" as it's called here. Which is a nice way of saying I exercise with the old people. My working hours mean I have to exercise in the morning, which is when most people my own age are working, so I hang with the oldies of a morning. "Nothing wrong with that", I hear you say, and, for the most part I would agree with you. Except for the times when I'm sweating like a crazy person and the men and women in their seventies and eighties are leaping around like they've found the secret of eternal youth (which, incidentally, I'm convinced some of them have. I'm planning to charm it out of them over time.)
I tried a few classes before I found this one, all of which were aimed at housewives rather than retired people so, on paper at least, seemed to be a good fit. The only problem is that the more dance-based classes require some kind of skill. I just don't have that skill. I realised after a while that I'm just not very good at moving. Sloth? No problem. Coordinated movement? You're just going to have to try elsewhere. There was also the added complication that I couldn't understand the Japanese instructions and can only manage as long as I can see the teacher, which is hard when you have to twirl.
So, eventually I accepted that I would have to join the slower moving class with no twirling. I even checked about the twirling with the staff at the front desk by twirling for them and then repeating だめ (prohibited) several times. When their eyebrows returned from the ceiling, they reassured me and I confirmed my reputation as a total muppet.
The best thing about this class, other than the lack of twirling, is the teacher. She's hilarious. No need to worry if you forget the routine halfway through, so does she! And then she does this awesome dance, waving her arms around and saying "AHHHHHH!". I love it and have been known to join in the "AHHHHHH" dance (although, to be honest, I was just blindly following her and didn't realise it wasn't the actual steps...).
I guess, sometimes, the teacher feels the need for a bit of twirling but, knowing her audience, knows that it could cause untold chaos. So, instead of twirling, we shimmy. If you ever get the chance to stand in a room of elderly men and women shaking what their Momma's gave 'em, take it. It's awesome. I usually stand next to a man in his seventies during the class. I've secretly named him the "aerobics buddha" because of his constantly peaceful expression. I've seen him in kickboxing class, hula class and even just walking around the gym and he always looks so serene. Even when he's shaking it like a poloroid picture, his face looks as if he's mid-meditation. Working on my serenity is on the to-do list but I can only aspire to the Aerobics Buddha's level.
Further up the list is working on my twirling. My aim is to make it into a more youthful class before my age makes it impossible.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Typhoons and other goings on
This week a huge typhoon swept across Japan. Looking at the pictures of Typhoon Melor is quite scary. Where I live, we braced ourselves for the destruction on Wednesday. People scurried home after work, most of them eshewing overtime, which is unheard of in the Japanese workplace. It was my first typhoon since I arrived almost four years ago becuase they rarely hit us here, we have lovely big mountains protecting us like a bodyguard protects Britney Spears. They're also awesome for climbing, but, obviously not during a typhoon, that would be dangerous. Anyway, typhoon panic kind of set in alongside the autumn festival mania. It made quite a heady combinaiton. So, you can imagine my sense of anticlimax when I negotiated an early departure from work (this is as unheard of as cancelling overtime and was only allowed because everyone else was staying home, making it hard for me to teach them.) only to find there was not a drop of rain or gust of wind to be had. It was like the typhoon that never was. At least here. Yesterday I finally saw what happened in Aichi Prefecture. The typhoon must have gathered speed after leaving my little baby island and hit the main island with a vengeance. I don't know what Honshu did to annoy Typhoon Melor, but I'm glad we're friends.
In other news, I went for a super duper fat reducing massage today. There is a beauty salon above my school (it's less of a school and more of a shop where we have classes) and I decided to check it out. I went for this miracle massage because it was reduced by about 20 000yen (220 dollars/ 140 pounds) making the bargain price of 4000 yen (44 dollars/28 pound) which I think you'll agree is a bargain. I was distinctly unconvinced that I would lose any weight in the process, but thought the experience might be a) interesting and b) relaxing. It checked both boxes.
On the interesting front, there were the paper pants. I've never worn paper pants before, and I was surprised at their strength and elasticity. To be honest, I was half expecting them to tear under the pressure from my over- sized behind, but they held up well and there was no sign of stress fractures when I placed them in the bin provided after my massage. I defy you to feel anything but vulnerable while wearing them, though. The women in the salon were adorable and took very good care of me (a more cynical person might claim that's what I'm paying them for, but I maintain that they have no contractual reason to be nice) once they've got me in the paper pants, I'm really at their mercy, but, luckily, they decided not to steal my clothes and make me walk home through town in my little blue paper pants.
The treatment consisted of being measured around all the parts of my body I try to ignore the size of, a sauna in the world's tiniest sauna- it was just a wooden box, which made me think of coffins (not my favourtite part) and then a massage with what looked like a knuckle duster. As is my habit, I fell asleep during the massage on account of it being very relaxing. So, I was a bit taken aback when the lovely salon ladies kept asking me if it hurt. I'm wondering if there is a pain to fat reducing ratio. If so, if it didn't hurt, does that mean I missed out on the maximum effect? Goodness, how disappointing.
Anyway, after a lovely (and gentle) massage, I was wrapped up in a plastic sheet and what felt like an airing cupboard of towels and left to sweat like a fat man in a cake shop for a while. At this point, I think that I should point out that I am a bit of a sweaty Betty, in a country where women seem to have their sweat glands removed at birth. In a humid summer, I am permanently trying to come up with neways to disguise sweat patches. My best solution so far to the problem is to spend summers in Antarctica. So, when the lovely, fragrant and distinctly unsweaty lady came back, she was quite taken aback at the Niagra Falls of sweat that greeted her when she unwrapped me.
In the end, I lost 0.3 kilos and that was before they let me drink any water. They very discreetly didn't measure me again, but did let me know that should I wish to join the Miss Cinderella Beauty Pageant in December, I would need to reduce my hip size by about 20cm. Luckily, I would rather eat the paper pants than enter a beauty pageant (I mean, really, do any of the contestants enjoy being overanalysed in their bikinis? And more to the point, do they gain anything other than an unhealthy body image and possibly an eating disorder from the experience?). To be honest, I think the staff of the salon might not meet such a small standard. They were all normal sized.
I have no idea or, indeed interest in remeasuring the circumference of my thighs (I do believe knoweledge is power, but I guess I'm just not power hungry enough) so I haven't whipped out the measuring tape again. All I know is that I feel very relaxed and unstressed. I also know that I don't need to feel guilty about the bag of crisps and the beer I've been enjoying while writing this because I totally lost weight today. ;P
In other news, I went for a super duper fat reducing massage today. There is a beauty salon above my school (it's less of a school and more of a shop where we have classes) and I decided to check it out. I went for this miracle massage because it was reduced by about 20 000yen (220 dollars/ 140 pounds) making the bargain price of 4000 yen (44 dollars/28 pound) which I think you'll agree is a bargain. I was distinctly unconvinced that I would lose any weight in the process, but thought the experience might be a) interesting and b) relaxing. It checked both boxes.
On the interesting front, there were the paper pants. I've never worn paper pants before, and I was surprised at their strength and elasticity. To be honest, I was half expecting them to tear under the pressure from my over- sized behind, but they held up well and there was no sign of stress fractures when I placed them in the bin provided after my massage. I defy you to feel anything but vulnerable while wearing them, though. The women in the salon were adorable and took very good care of me (a more cynical person might claim that's what I'm paying them for, but I maintain that they have no contractual reason to be nice) once they've got me in the paper pants, I'm really at their mercy, but, luckily, they decided not to steal my clothes and make me walk home through town in my little blue paper pants.
The treatment consisted of being measured around all the parts of my body I try to ignore the size of, a sauna in the world's tiniest sauna- it was just a wooden box, which made me think of coffins (not my favourtite part) and then a massage with what looked like a knuckle duster. As is my habit, I fell asleep during the massage on account of it being very relaxing. So, I was a bit taken aback when the lovely salon ladies kept asking me if it hurt. I'm wondering if there is a pain to fat reducing ratio. If so, if it didn't hurt, does that mean I missed out on the maximum effect? Goodness, how disappointing.
Anyway, after a lovely (and gentle) massage, I was wrapped up in a plastic sheet and what felt like an airing cupboard of towels and left to sweat like a fat man in a cake shop for a while. At this point, I think that I should point out that I am a bit of a sweaty Betty, in a country where women seem to have their sweat glands removed at birth. In a humid summer, I am permanently trying to come up with neways to disguise sweat patches. My best solution so far to the problem is to spend summers in Antarctica. So, when the lovely, fragrant and distinctly unsweaty lady came back, she was quite taken aback at the Niagra Falls of sweat that greeted her when she unwrapped me.
In the end, I lost 0.3 kilos and that was before they let me drink any water. They very discreetly didn't measure me again, but did let me know that should I wish to join the Miss Cinderella Beauty Pageant in December, I would need to reduce my hip size by about 20cm. Luckily, I would rather eat the paper pants than enter a beauty pageant (I mean, really, do any of the contestants enjoy being overanalysed in their bikinis? And more to the point, do they gain anything other than an unhealthy body image and possibly an eating disorder from the experience?). To be honest, I think the staff of the salon might not meet such a small standard. They were all normal sized.
I have no idea or, indeed interest in remeasuring the circumference of my thighs (I do believe knoweledge is power, but I guess I'm just not power hungry enough) so I haven't whipped out the measuring tape again. All I know is that I feel very relaxed and unstressed. I also know that I don't need to feel guilty about the bag of crisps and the beer I've been enjoying while writing this because I totally lost weight today. ;P
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
An odd way to start the day
Today was the annual autumn festival in the town I live in. It's annual because, obviously, autumn only comes once a year, it just happens to come hand in hand with a typhoon sometimes. Today is one of those sometimes.
So, I got up at 5.30am, yes people, that's a.m as in morning, and ventured out in the rain while it was still dark, to watch this festival designed to get the Gods on side in time for the rice harvest. I've often wondered if a nice watch or book token might not be better, but who am I to make suggestions about ancient customs?
Now, I don't know about most people, but my image of a Japanese festival is very delicate and elegant. Yeah, this festival, not so much of the delicacy or elegance- it's a thinly veiled excuse for a riot. Teams from all over the city, arranged according to area, take the Mikoshi (the best translation I've seen for this is "portable shrine"- it's basically a large, golden box that is said to contain a God. You can almost see them in the picture) from the main temple in their area, lift it together with two men balanced on the top, whose main role seems to be yelling and waving their arms about, and then proceed to bash the living daylights out of each other. I've never quite worked out how the winner is decided. I'm not quite sure that's the point. There are moments when the two teams are so busy kicking the crap out of each other, they forget about the Mikoshi altogether and focus on the punching. That's my cue to go home for a kip before work (Did I mention the 5.30AM start?)
I wouldn't like to cast aspersions but it's also worth noting that many of the participants are allegedly (I repeat allegedly in case any of them are randomly fluent English readers and fans of my blog, in which case, "Hi. Welcome. I'm a good person, I don't want to cast aspersions, I'm skint and please don't hurt me") Yakuza. They have what has become known among my friends as "Yakuza hair". This basically means they have dyed their hair all kinds of crazy colours, shaved it into interesting shapes and styled it into a mohican. Basically, the kind of style that anyone in a regular job would be sacked for having. Today, there was even a guy with the kanji for "man" styled into his hair with what looked like red candle wax (I'm not going to speculate about how he did that and certainly not if he enjoyed it, but I'm sure he thought he looked the bees knees) I am utterly fascinated by the way they all interacted and pass a lot of the time at the festival every year trying to work out who the boss is (I've seen the Sopranos, so I'm practically an expert in these things and it can't be so different, right?). I'm not usually the kind of person to hang out in the kind of place that Yakuza can be observed in their natural habitat, indeed, I'd go so far as to say I wholheartedly avoid them, so it's an interesting cultural study if nothing else.
Once the fighting has finished (and, as I say, it is a proper bundle by the end), the team members carry the Mikoshi back to their home area and visit the local businesses collecting donations (I feel like there should be a more religious word for that but, like the good Catholic that I am, I've totally forgotten it). At this stage, many small temples also join in with smaller Mikoshi and there are even children's ones, which are the definitition of cute (By the way, they're not fighting, they're just walking around, blowing whistles and getting sweets from old people in return for so cute). Basically, the festival returns to fulfil my expectaions of what an autumn festival should be. Mind you, I'm not sure it's as good as harvest festival at school- they don't have any boxes of cereal or baked beans and no one sings Koombayaa (I have no idea how that's spelt but, then when have I ever needed to write it down?).
Every year, participants in this festival fill the hospitals with varying degrees of injury and there have been a number of fatalities in the time that I've been watching the festival. And yet, despite the violence, I can't help but be fascinated. It seems a pretty full on way to wake up the Gods so we can ask them for some rice. The fact that it goes against my image of the traditional Japanese festival (not a kimono lady in sight) makes it all the better. I love seeing stereotypes blown out of the water and this does just that. Cowabunga!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Costume-tastic
I spent a marvellous afternoon today driving in the mountains with the Fairy Godmother and her dog. It was a beautiful autumn day, the sun was shining, there were plenty of farmers markets to stop at and the scenery was amazing. We had a lovely time, chatting, laughing, taking wrong turns all over town. The dog has a new way of directing attention on to him- to stop me from talking, he licks my face in quite an over enthusiastic manner. My rubbish attempts to train him out of this have had absolutely no impact whatsoever, so I have no choice but to clamp my mouth shut and wait for him to be reassured that we haven't forgotten his existence. Mind you, it takes more than an over familiar puppy to shut me up, so I have now updated the Fairy Godmother on every part of my life that she never needed or wanted to know. At least she's not as keen to shut me up as the dog, I'm not quite sure if our friendship would survive if she tried to lick my face. I'm just not that kind of girl.
Driving around the countryside, you don't half see some sights. Apart from the obvious breathtaking scenery, I mean. Up at the top of the mountain, we spied a man in a full wetsuit, hood and snorkel mask included, walking along the road. Miles away from any place that would usually require a wetsuit. Now I'm as open minded as the next person, but I am inclined to think there is a time and a place for a wetsuit. That place is not usually at the top of a mountain.
It seems that Japan is the land of crazy costumes. This is, after all, the birthplace of Cosplay, events in which the participants dress up as their favourite comic book character. But that's just the start. Even in the relatively conservative city I live in, I regularly see Gothic Lolitas wandering around town dressed as Little Bo Peep. It's amazing to see. The platform shoes are huge, the dresses are delicately made and the make up must take hours. The girls really do look like a cartoon, which, when you think about it, is quite an acheivement and must require a dedication rarely seen in teenagers.
People say that Japan is a country of conformists, and it is true that for every LoliGoth you see, there are a few hundred salarymen in either black suits or company uniforms. But, I think there is a Cosplay fan or LoliGoth hiding inside almost everyone. If you look closely as you drive around Japan, you'll see all sorts of individuals. And maybe a random man in a wetsuit.
Driving around the countryside, you don't half see some sights. Apart from the obvious breathtaking scenery, I mean. Up at the top of the mountain, we spied a man in a full wetsuit, hood and snorkel mask included, walking along the road. Miles away from any place that would usually require a wetsuit. Now I'm as open minded as the next person, but I am inclined to think there is a time and a place for a wetsuit. That place is not usually at the top of a mountain.
It seems that Japan is the land of crazy costumes. This is, after all, the birthplace of Cosplay, events in which the participants dress up as their favourite comic book character. But that's just the start. Even in the relatively conservative city I live in, I regularly see Gothic Lolitas wandering around town dressed as Little Bo Peep. It's amazing to see. The platform shoes are huge, the dresses are delicately made and the make up must take hours. The girls really do look like a cartoon, which, when you think about it, is quite an acheivement and must require a dedication rarely seen in teenagers.
People say that Japan is a country of conformists, and it is true that for every LoliGoth you see, there are a few hundred salarymen in either black suits or company uniforms. But, I think there is a Cosplay fan or LoliGoth hiding inside almost everyone. If you look closely as you drive around Japan, you'll see all sorts of individuals. And maybe a random man in a wetsuit.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Facebook is my frenemy
I should start by saying that I LOVE Facebook. This isn't an anti-Facebook rant, because I think it's awesome. I get to catch up with all sorts of people, check out other people's holiday pictures (not to mention their conversations on their walls, not that I do that, that would make me kind of a nosey loser and I'm certainly not one of those, no siree) and waste way more time than is sensible playing stupid pointless sushi games (the one where you get to pretend to be a sushi chef without actually having to handle fish and therefore stink of the stuff all the time). In fact, I know communicate with more people in a day than ever before. Which is where the negative side starts to creep in.
Now, I think it's marvellous that I have been able to get back in touch with people I haven't seen in years. When I left school, all those moons ago, we didn't have emails or mobile phones (we did, however, have the wheel and running water, I'm not that old) so it was more difficult to keep in touch with people. Facebook changed all that. However, as happy as I am to catch up with these people online, I'm not so sure about meeting them in person. I mean, after all these years it could turn out to be the most awkward night out ever, which is bad. A more cynical person would say there was a reason why we fell out of touch and perhaps it is better not to return to the past. I wouldn't go that far, but I do think to need to consider things carefully before arranging to meet. Especially if you're in my position and only return home for a few weeks a year. You don't want to waste precious sofa reconnection time with the wrong people (seriously, the Mama and the Papa have THE best sofa EVER, fact. I go home to spend time on the sofa as much as to see my parents, and have no guilt about forcing my arthritic mum to sit elsewhere). On the other hand, you could have a marvellous time going over old times and be really pleased you got back in touch. You just never know how these things will turn out, if you don't even get a funny blog post out of it, it could turn out to be a sorry waste of time.
My other problem with Facebook is that I have now made public my total and utter inability to spell. In the days of the text message, you could rely on predictive text to cover your ignorance (I say you, I mean me), but there isn't even a spell check on there. When your boss at an English language school is among your Facebook friends, that's not good. I find myself dreaming of spelling fairies to help me out (in my head they wear pink and have pretty little pencil shaped wands).
There's also the pressure to come up with a pithy, witty and comment worthy status update. It's so distressing when you come up with a, frankly, side-splittingly funny update only for noone to comment, especially when the "so and so is going for a poo" style ones get shedloads of comments. Facebook rivalry, it's a blight on our modern times.
But despite all that, I'm so glad some smart computer nerd type created Facebook and then went on to make millions. It's way more interesting than trying to fathom out Japanese late night TV, and much less intellectual than reading a book, and hence, right up my dumbed down alley. So hurrah for future potentially awkward nights out with the girls from school! And double hurrah for poor spelling and failed attempts at comedy. Long may they continue!
Now, I think it's marvellous that I have been able to get back in touch with people I haven't seen in years. When I left school, all those moons ago, we didn't have emails or mobile phones (we did, however, have the wheel and running water, I'm not that old) so it was more difficult to keep in touch with people. Facebook changed all that. However, as happy as I am to catch up with these people online, I'm not so sure about meeting them in person. I mean, after all these years it could turn out to be the most awkward night out ever, which is bad. A more cynical person would say there was a reason why we fell out of touch and perhaps it is better not to return to the past. I wouldn't go that far, but I do think to need to consider things carefully before arranging to meet. Especially if you're in my position and only return home for a few weeks a year. You don't want to waste precious sofa reconnection time with the wrong people (seriously, the Mama and the Papa have THE best sofa EVER, fact. I go home to spend time on the sofa as much as to see my parents, and have no guilt about forcing my arthritic mum to sit elsewhere). On the other hand, you could have a marvellous time going over old times and be really pleased you got back in touch. You just never know how these things will turn out, if you don't even get a funny blog post out of it, it could turn out to be a sorry waste of time.
My other problem with Facebook is that I have now made public my total and utter inability to spell. In the days of the text message, you could rely on predictive text to cover your ignorance (I say you, I mean me), but there isn't even a spell check on there. When your boss at an English language school is among your Facebook friends, that's not good. I find myself dreaming of spelling fairies to help me out (in my head they wear pink and have pretty little pencil shaped wands).
There's also the pressure to come up with a pithy, witty and comment worthy status update. It's so distressing when you come up with a, frankly, side-splittingly funny update only for noone to comment, especially when the "so and so is going for a poo" style ones get shedloads of comments. Facebook rivalry, it's a blight on our modern times.
But despite all that, I'm so glad some smart computer nerd type created Facebook and then went on to make millions. It's way more interesting than trying to fathom out Japanese late night TV, and much less intellectual than reading a book, and hence, right up my dumbed down alley. So hurrah for future potentially awkward nights out with the girls from school! And double hurrah for poor spelling and failed attempts at comedy. Long may they continue!
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