Usually on a Sunday, since it's my one day off each week, I like to do as little as possible, or at least as little as I'm allowed to get away with doing. More often than not, of course, I'm allowed to get away with very little when it comes to doing very little. I have had to become quite expert at gauging where mrs bln is likely to be at any one time and am usually now able to find myself in an entirely different location at the appropriate moment. Sometimes I slip up and mistime her movements and before I know it I'm standing there listening to long and complicated instructions about taking curtains down or some such thing, so I need to keep my wits about me at all times.

Which can be quite tiring, really.

Anyway, this last Sunday I had already been presented with a fait accompli as one of the kindergartens where I teach had asked me to come in for a couple of hours to give some special classes in front of the parents, so any thoughts about having a nice lazy Sunday were already out of the window.

The idea was then mooted that, since I was going to be getting up early anyway, maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea for me to make up the bunk beds that the kids had been clamouring for since gawd knows when. Actually, even though it did sound a bit like physical exertion, I could see the positive side because getting the kids out of our bed and into their own would leave mrs bln and myself in the unusual position of actually sleeping together, a scenario for which all sorts of possibilities came to mind.

And so, early Sunday morning I found myself jumping around with 40 five year olds in front of a crowd of proud mums and dads. A couple of things I can say about that is that Japanese mums smile at me a lot and Japanese dads smile at me very little and that my version of the 'Hokey Cokey' (or Pokey if you're that way inclined) has, as its final verse, 'You put your bottom in...your bottom out..you put your bottom in and you shake it all about...' and I'd just like to say that knowing there were all those mothers in attendance, I put in some extra special shaking it all about at that point...

You'd have been proud of me.

Then, true to my word (oh all right, I hadn't been able to think of a cunning plan to get out of it) I made the girls their bunk bed. I could tell you a story about the carpenter's blood rushing through my veins and the hours of good honest toil it took to build them their bed but in truth it all slotted together with no problems at all and I had it up in about 40 minutes. Hannah was delighted, especially since she discovered that by jumping off the top of her new bed, onto ours below, she was able to get sufficient bounce to almost make it back all the way up again. Maya, at only two and a half, was delighted to find that she could get up to the top on her own but not so delighted to discover that she couldn't get back down. This didn't however prevent her from conveniently forgetting this fact during the course of the day and when I found myself trudging wearily back upstairs to rescue her for the 600th time, we had to have words about it...

You may recall that I've blogged in the past about the fact that conversations in my house tend not to be too wide ranging and diverse. I've learned not to suddenly try out new topics of conversation on mrs bln as they tend to throw her off balance somewhat and most of my life at home is predicated on the monumental effort of preventing that at all costs. So we were headed for familiar territory when I asked her late morning what we might be enjoying for lunch that day. This is familiar territory because such a question can, apparently, have only two possible answers, cha-han (fried rice) or yaki-soba (fried noodles). I have learned, to my cost, not to make ANY kind of comment regarding these Sunday dining arrangements and it was with no surprise (I actually mouthed the words along with her) that I learned that we were to be having cha-han for lunch.

"Oh, that sounds good," I said, "but what with all that jumping around at the kindergarten and making bunk beds, I'm pretty ravenous actually, so how about something a little more, substantial shall we say, and why not (since we're about it) something, oh I don't know, that might do exciting things to our tastebuds too..?"

This turned out to be a pretty cunning ploy all on its own since she is unused to me claiming hunger before mealtimes (lack of hunger being a well used ruse to avoid fried rice and noodles in the past) and she looked worryingly off balance for a moment before pulling herself together and uttering the joyful words

"Well, there's nothing else to eat in the house so if you don't want cha-han, let's go to Mos Burger then...

Later that afternoon, well sated by our substantial and tastebud exciting cheeseburgers and onion rings, we set off for a local discount electrical store to look for a new telly, since our old one had recently given up the ghost after 10 years of faithful disservice. She who must be obeyed had decided that we had a budget of 80000 yen, which proved to be ample unless we started hankering after one of those High Definition jobs, which we didn't. In the end, we were able to find a quite satisfactory 28 inch wide screen affair for only 40000 yen, reduced from 160000 yen because it was a two year old model...

Since we'd only spent half of our budget and were feeling very pleased with ourselves, I thought I'd chance my luck and see if I could persuade her to agree to getting a dvd player while we were there, on the spot as it were. I knew of course that this half hearted suggestion would meet with the standard 'money's not for spending, it's for holding on to' retort, so you can imagine the almost uncontrollable rush of excitement that swept through me when she thought for a moment and then said,

"OK"

I wasn't going to give her time to exercise the woman's prerogative and quickly raced round to have a look at their selection, managing to find a very reasonably priced (12000 yen) Sony model.

Still basking in the warm afterglow of getting my wishes granted twice on the same day, I drove back home. Noticing mrs bln smiling, I asked her what was amusing her so much. She explained that because the salesman in the shop had a shaved head too, seeing the two of us standing next to each other was almost more amusement than she could bear and she'd been so moved that she'd agreed to my request, even though clearly we had no need for a dvd player.

Well that's what she said, but personally I think that she'd been thinking about the possibilities of us being together in the same bed again and had come over all flustered or something...

For the first time, or at least the first time that I've been aware of, I've been losing subscribers. Seven of 'em have jumped ship this last week and while it wouldn't really be true to say that I'm unduly worried about it, I have been wondering why.

Personally, I've never unsubscribed from anyone but that may be because I almost never subscribe until I've been reading for a while and although there have been times that I have disagreed violently (but in a quietly self contained kind of way) with something I've read in my SIR, what interested me in the first place keeps me coming back for more.

It could also be that (as you all know) I am so attuned to my inner Pooh that I'd never even remember to unsubscribe. I'm still subscribed to Shortpants, for example, who disappeared in a blaze of silence about 16 years ago. I know I ought to unsub, since the space his name takes up could be replaced with someone more, let's say, extant, but it always slips my mind and besides, there's always the sentimental and nostalgic pleasure of seeing his name there.

I'm not suggesting for a moment that any of you should feel obliged (ha!) to remain subscribed to me for any reasons, sentimental or otherwise; I'm just curious what precipitated this mass exodus. Seven people can be called 'a mass', can't they?

I wonder if it's because I don't post so regularly any more or if, instead of the wild free for all of the Wotsits days, you now have little to keep you amused. Or maybe it was because I told you about having a wank on the balcony in my last post. I imagine that some people might not find that thought as amusing as I did.

Anyway, they've gone, which is excellent news for the rest of you because there's now more of me to go round.

And to show my appreciation for those that remain, here's a little quiz for you:

Here are some of the bloggers that I enjoy. Unfortunately, they've gone and got themselves all in a muddle and I can't remember who they are. Can you help me sort them all out?

Moans in heat

Rub bald Len

Rather nude

Man ogre

Gathered deer smut

Erodes youth hero

Lush life miaow

************************

Finally, because I know how stressful your lives are, why not try bln's stress test. This is an excellent though simple test that's surprisingly effective at indicating whether you have too much stress in your life.

It's a picture of two dolphins. They will appear completely normal when viewed by a stress-free individual. Unfortunately, the test is not accurate enough to pick up mild stress levels.

It's quite simple. If there is anything that appears different about the dolphins, (ignore the slight colour differences) it is often an indication of potential stress related problems. Differences, if any, may also indicate the source of your stress.

Directions:
Sit upright and viewing the screen head-on, take a deep breath, exhale and then click on the blue ball and look directly at the picture that appears. If there is anything out of the ordinary then you should consider taking things a little easier....

Since coming back from Hawaii I've found it almost impossible to shake a deep sense of tiredness that goes well beyond simple jetlag; a tiredness that to be honest I took out there with me hoping to get rid of in the first place...

I'll admit to feeling a certain pressure to at least write something about the trip and as the days have passed and I've failed to do anything constructive, the pressure has grown so I'm just going to get this over with and move on to other things.

What can I say about the trip? That international travel with small children in tow is exhausting. That a 5 day holiday including flights from Japan to Hawaii is far from relaxing. That Waikiki is so full of Japanese and caters so much to them as to make it seem as though I hardly left Japan in the first place. That the cost of living there is ridiculously expensive. That it proved impossible for me to find a simple bar outside of the hotel and for my in laws to go more than two days without wanting to go to a Japanese restaurant. That, regardless of the fact that there may have been a convention going on at the time, I am not, have never been and never intend to be an orthodontist, so please don't ask me again. That I will never get used to paying $20 for a fucking sandwich, even if it comes with a mountain of potato chips on the side and neither will I ever get used to having to tip 15% of the price of everything that is brought to me. That the highlight of the trip was the book that the ineffably concupiscent DiDi lent me for the journey (Because They Wanted To by Mary Gaitskill) and that the closest I came to any kind of sexual shenanigans was having a wank on the balcony one evening when everyone else had gone to bed.

I am sure that the islands have plenty to offer but I didn't find any of it in Waikiki and, with apologies to those of you that live there, I'll close by saying that once was enough.

I can't tell you how good it feels to get all that off my chest.



Especially the balcony bit...

haru dakara

A few years ago, a friend of mine was jogging around a local park one sunny April morning. She was 21 at the time and the sort of girl that you’d call a firecracker; always full of energy and zest for life. You couldn’t help but have a good time in her company and I’m pretty sure that if you were ever lucky enough to get her in bed, you’d be up for a whale of a time. I’m only pretty sure about that because as I said, she was a friend and besides, this isn’t about her so much as what happened while she was out jogging in the park.

So there she is, pootling away and she becomes aware of this guy who has started jogging alongside her. She looks over at him, wondering what he’s doing, but he doesn’t acknowledge her, and they just run on together for a while in silence. Suddenly, he reaches over with his right hand and squeezes her left breast, holds it for a moment or two as my friend looks down in surprise and then he takes off at full speed in the opposite direction.

A few days later, when she told me about what had happened, the Westerner in me managed to be both outraged and sympathetic in equal measures but she herself appeared utterly unruffled by the whole affair. I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t pissed off about it and when I asked her, she simply shrugged her shoulders and said “Oh...haru dakara , because it’s Spring...”

She explained to me that the Japanese believe that people do all kinds of crazy things in the Spring and that any peculiar behaviour at that time of year, especially of a sexual nature, is quite understandable...why, it’s just human nature....

And it’s true, they do believe that here. I’ve heard it used many times for any number of reasons to explain or excuse oddness between March and May. I don’t know that it constitutes what you’d call an actual legal defence, but it certainly appears to be a notion close to the popular bosom. Sometimes I wonder if life might not be a sort of perpetual Springtime for me. It's entirely possible.

And since as excuses go, this one’s pretty much unbeatable, I’d just like to say that if you notice anything odd about my behaviour, anything at all, I only have this to say

haru dakara

Do you remember me telling you that I was to be the new hancho from April? Well, today was my first chance to be in charge of the exciting recycling operation that takes place once a month.

At precisely 6:45am I leapt 'enthusiastically' out of bed, winced as my ELP smacked against the floor and threw myself downstairs, into some clothes and out of the door in several very unfluid motions.

At the little plot of land which doubles as neighbourhood rubbish dump and spillover carpark for the nearby temple, I found things already in full swing. There were three other hanchos already at work, guarding the large netting bags used for the collection of plastic bottles (clear), plastic bottles (coloured), polystyrene and sundry plastics, as well as the crates waiting for steel cans, aluminium cans, glass bottles (clear) and glass bottles (coloured).

As the neighbours all woke up and began the task of disposing of their recyclable rubbish, we were there to help them and I am happy to report that I did you all proud. I said good morning to a large number of people that I had never noticed before and helped them to find their way to the correct receptacle, sometimes even helping them to empty their rubbish bags, if they looked like they needed such help and sometimes even if they didn't.

The best bit about it was that I was presented with my very own yellow armband to wear, which proclaimed me a hancho, lest anyone think I was just some crazy gaijin who likes waking up at the crack of dawn (that one's yours, rache) and hanging around looking at other people's empty shampoo bottles. It might have been sleep in their eyes, but I like to think it was a new found look of respect that I saw when they noticed my yellow badge of authority...

One old fellow of about a hundred and sixty five or so, I should think, came shuffling along, bent double with age and pushing a little trolley, in which were balanced precariously eighteen (I counted 'em as I threw them away for him) empty 2 litre bottles of shochu. As you'll see from the link, this stuff's about 50% proof on average and this constituted a serious amount of drinking for one wizened little old fellow of about a hundred and sixty five or so to do in a month....

Anyway, I can report that it really is interesting having a look at other folks' garbage and I am now a fully fledged recycle technician but the buggers made me give back my armband at the end....

Now, on to other things...

First of all, I really appreciate the suggestions you made for my forthcoming trip. I'll let you know whether I manage to do any or all of them...

And now to answer a few of the questions from the last blog...

EroVeggie asks whether he can have my cookies if I die. Since I'm not planning to die, ever, the answer, sadly for him, is no.

Ani Difrentdrumrco asked about BRN. Hmm...it's like this...if you ever hear from him, you'll know about it. As much as possible, he is kept securely under lock and key but sometimes, somehow, he manages to escape and there is always a lot of clearing up to do afterwards, so please, try not to encourage him....

Dope Mama wondered about the financial arrangements behind the holiday. Well, my father in law is paying for the whole family (thirteen adults and children) to go out to celebrate his 60th birthday....

The answer to the pertly benippled Aleph's question is more complicated. He wonders why it is that birds suddenly appear- everytime I am near. This is in part due to sheer animal magnetism but also has something to do with migratory patterns, though probably not very much....

hello

Every now and then I come across blogs about the writer's relationship with xanga. I expect you do too. A lot of us go through very similar experiences here and it can be fun to learn that others are going through the same kind of xangan navel gazing. So I thought that I ought to tell you about these xangan panic attacks I've been having recently. Actually, they're not really panic attacks so much as cold, clammy, wake up in the middle of the night but although your mind is awake you can't get your body to move at all and you lie there helplessly wriggling and squirming inside your head kind of attacks.

So I thought I'd tell you about them, but then I cogitated some more and thought fuck it, I'll tell you about the Rolling Stones instead.

Some of the more wide awake among you may have been able to deduce from my last post that I went to see the Rolling Stones last week. This was the penultimate date of their tour of Japan and I’d been looking forward to it for ages. I wouldn’t say that I am a huge fan of theirs but it’s the Stones fer chrissakes, they’re bloomin’ rock and roll legends, innit?

The plan was to drive down to Osaka with three Japanese friends, see the show and then stay on and see what trouble we could get ourselves into in the big city, then in the early morning grab a couple of hours kip in the car before driving back.

Well, that was the plan.

What actually happened was something like this. The guys eventually came to pick me up around 2:30 in the afternoon. It was a beautiful early Spring day; warm and sunny and not a cloud in the sky. A perfect day to go for a drive, enjoy a little somethingorother in the car and kick back with some killer tunes as the miles flash by. A perfect day for all that.

So when I got into the car, the first order of business, naturally enough, was sorting out that somethingorother; once that’s organised, everything else sort of falls into place quite nicely, if you know what I mean.

Cut to a few minutes later and stoo’s kicking in very pleasantly, thanks very much, and I turned my attention to the music that was playing on the car stereo. Now what’s this? Sounds a little too ambient for the kind of trip I'm hoping for. This stuff’s for the early hours of the morning after a hard night’s bump and grind; listening to it now would be like rolling over and reaching for a cigarette right at the beginning of the date, so I respectfully suggested that they get that shit off and slip in something with a little more bite. This was then followed by one of those silences that they call pregnant and then we had an open and frank discussion, the outcome of which was the realisation that this was the only cd in the car and that due to a communications mix up (nobody had said a word to me about it), they had been expecting me to bring music and that more importantly we had driven up onto the highway a few minutes ago and there was no turning back now...

However bleak and desperate life may seem at times, keeping things in perspective and maintaining a positive outlook can do wonders in situations like this. Sure, on the one hand we were trapped with nothing but elevator music to keep us aurally satisfied for the next three hours, but on the other hand, I had three buddies with me and we’re all off our trees and the sun’s shining away like a bastard and if that’s not a recipe for a good time, I don’t know what is...

Except of course, this recipe only works if all parties are up for the party, as it were, and when one party falls asleep and another might as well be and the driver is using up all of his conversation by keeping his eyes glued to the road, then it's not much of a party. So when I piped in with my great idea for a long journey in a car game, you can imagine what a rapturous welcome it got....

Happily enough, we arrived in Osaka and somehow managed to find our way to the Dome Stadium. For the sake of brevity, I'm going to gloss over the bits where we had to stop and ask directions from old men and for the sake of my reputation I'm going to gloss over the bit where I accosted some young girls at a highway rest area and asked them if I could ride the rest of the way in their car.

Anyway, so we found ourselves inside Osaka Dome with about half an hour to go before the show and forty thousand other concert goers in front of us in the queue for beer. I take my hat off to the organisers for the logistical feat they pulled off in getting us to our seats with paper cupped beers in hand just as the screams went up from those in the mosh pits down at the front and the grandaddies of English popular music took the stage.

In the really good concert reviews they always tell you what songs the band played, because fans like to know about that kind of thing, but since this isn't going to be a really good concert review, I'll just say that they didn't play enough of the oldies that I could have sung along to happily and that Keith Richards singing a song just the one time would have been enough. Other than that they put out a professional show and it was just what you'd expect from a band of their mural sized proportions.

One other thing of note about the show was that our seats were almost at the end of a row, with just one empty seat on my right and that seat remained empty during the opening number. Do you remember how in a recent blog (the one in which I told you about meeting Claudia Schiffer), I told you about my brain synapses when I see expensive sports cars? Well, I was having similar feelings about that seat. I leaned over to my friends and said, "A fabulously gorgeous nymphomaniac is going to come and sit next to me soon..."

I don't think I need to go into any descriptions of their reaction when the seat was eventually taken by a generously overweight middle aged man in too tight shiny black slacks and carrying a briefcase. I saved the day, however, by singing "he's a gas gas gas!" really loudly in his ear, maybe even during the right song.

So that was the Rolling Stones. And now I'm supposed to tell you about the night of debauchery that followed but what happened was that after the gig ended and after we'd stood behind forty thousand people in the queue for the after show piss, we discovered that three of us were a bit tired actually and probably it would be for the best to just drive back home now. One of us tried to keep the flame of hope alive by calling them a bunch of Japanese wusses but he only did that in a mumbly sort of way and under his breath because he didn't want to get stranded in Osaka although he had actually just spotted a couple of likely looking ladies who he thought he could persuade to give him a four hundred kilometre ride back home and if not, they'd at least turn out to be fabulously gorgeous nymphomaniacs who'd take him home and fuck him silly. So he bade goodnight to his sleepyheaded chums and went off with those two lovely ladies and only got back home this morning.

Which is why you haven’t heard from me for nearly a week.

OK?

Driving in to work last Wednesday morning, I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw a lime green porsche.

How many of you can truthfully hold up your hands and say that you did the same? In my neighbourhood, I can assure you, lime green porsches are thin on the ground.

As the lights ahead changed to red, the driver gunned the engine and slipped into the outside lane, then drew up alongside me as we slowed down and stopped at the line. The lime green porsche was making expensive sports car noises over to my right as I turned my head to look at the driver. I wanted to know who’d drive such a car and don’t you go pretending that you wouldn’t have done the same thing.

Now, before I get into the next bit, you need a little background on my psychological state that day. When I was in my early twenties, I used to hitch hike a lot. There’s a story I could tell you about how the land called out to me to travel its length and breadth and when I’d had my fill of that, of how my thumb carried me across the sea to Europe where together (my thumb and I) we traversed more lengths and breadths and met many an adventure and frolicked (my thumb and I) with many a frolicsome wench. I could tell you that story, but I shouldn’t, because not a word of it would be true. Except the bit about adventures and wenches. The reason I hitched was because I was a poor student and couldn’t afford the train.

Anyway, what I wanted to say was that whenever I was hitch hiking, in England or on the Continent, every time I saw an expensive sports car something synapsed in my brain and a message flashed into my thoughts:

“It’s going to be driven by a fabulously gorgeous woman who also just happens to be a nymphomaniac. And she’s got her best friend with her, who also just happens to be fabulously gorgeous and very generous with her favours. And they’re going to see me and stop to offer me a lift and I’m going to get in and they’re going to take me to their house and fuck me silly.”

Now that you know that important part of the story, you’ll understand that in the second or so that it took to turn my head to look at the driver, exactly the same message flashed into my head. That’s what I mean when I talk about my psychological state that day.

So I’m hoping against hope that maybe this time there really will be fabulously gorgeous women in my immediate future as my eyes swing over to the open window of the lime green porsche and see


Claudia Schiffer.


And she smiles in surprise at me. And says, “Wow. A gaijin. Do you live here?”

I tell her that I do, silently begging the lights to stay red forever. And then, incredibly, she says, “Hey, do you fancy going for a cup of coffee?”

Now, at this point I should really tell you about the next few moments in which the lights changed to green and things got a bit awkward and involved horns and angry looks from other drivers, but I’m going to skip over that part and go straight to the bit where she says, “OK, follow me back to my hotel then.”

And that was last Wednesday morning and I only just got home today.

Which is why you haven’t heard from me for nearly a week.

OK?