A bit of clarification for us all! And obviously, not intended to offend and not based on any particular person, rather it's a mish-mash of anecdotes and good old fashioned stereotyping. It's just a bit of fun. Jaysus, calm down.
The Japanese Man English-to-English Translation For Western Women
* I like you – I want to have sex
* I love you – I think I like you
* I want to marry you – I’m not sure where this relationship is going
* I miss you – I’m horny
* Let’s have dinner together – I lost my wallet
* Your hair looks different – I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with you
* Let’s meet on Sunday – I don’t have anything better to do
* Let’s go back to your place – I still live with my parents
* I’m going back to my hometown – My laundry needs to be done
* I’m working overtime – I’m drunk
* I’ll buy condoms later – You’re going to be pregnant before the evening ends
* I bought you a present – give me a present
* I’m listening – I have no idea what you just said
* I’m tired – stop talking
* Some people say I look like Brad Pitt/Tom Cruise – I secretly wish I wasn’t Asian
* You’re beautiful – you look like Kate Moss/Cameron Diaz/Catherine Zeta-Jones if she were standing in a really dark room with a Scream mask on
* Sorry, I’ve been busy – Who are you again?
Monday 29 November 2010
Thursday 18 November 2010
Dream Job
A bit about my job.
Imagine that you're out with your friend and they've brought some people you don't know along. And you're all sitting there in some bar or other, sipping your drinks. You find that your friend's friends aren't that interesting to talk to. If you're lucky they might start talking about their work or housing problems, which helps fill the silence. But more often than not, you find that it's you who has to intitiate the conversation, and it all trails off in a series of yes no answers.
Then, horror of horrors, your friend goes off to the toilet. You're stuck at the table with the people who have nothing to say. You wish the fire alarm would go off or a window-shattering earthquake would happen, if only to create an ice-breaker.
That's my job.
A typical day at my company will feature this scenario seven times, each jaw-clenching episode lasting forty minutes. More often than not, the "classes" start like this:
Me: Hello. How are you?
Students: ...
Me: Oh.
And your heart sinks as you realise that this is going to be one of those classes. After ten minutes you take a look at the clock, hoping that enough time has passed so that you can at least move onto the textbook, and any pretense at normal chat is over. But the clock is cruel today - it is moving slowly to spite you, taunting you with its cheap, nasty, 100 yen shop hands.
At least in the bar with the dull friend, there is alcohol.
You talk about yourself, trying to create a "hook" interesting enough to make them ask one, just one, question. You start thinking of ludicrous scenarios, anecdotes, what-if questions, anything, anything, to make the student say something. You resort to outrageous lies:
Me: I met the Queen once. Ask me a question.
Student: ...
It should be noted that of course, in most cases, the students are rather reserved and shy. That's understandable. But why sign up to these classes if you're not going to participate? I had a religious studies teacher who once said that going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than going to Macdonalds makes you a hamburger. And it's the same here - turning up to a language school isn't going to automatically class you as an English speaker. It isn't like joining a club where membership equals status.
I have to add that of course there are exceptions to the rule. There are students who participate wonderfully and don't leave the teacher with a sore throat from all the silence filling (last year I lost my voice precisely every Wednesday evening after a day of one-sided conversation). These students try. They are interesting people. And it isn't down to their language ability either - some of my favourite students have trouble stringing sentences together. The fact is that they understand the concept - conversation schools are meant for conversation.
The more I think about it, the more I realise that we foreigners in these schools are actually hosts - hosts minus the booze, naughty promises and huge hairstyles, entertaining like geisha in Uniqlo office attire.
Most foreigners in Japan don't do this forever.
Student: ...
Fantasy Me: I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!
Imagine that you're out with your friend and they've brought some people you don't know along. And you're all sitting there in some bar or other, sipping your drinks. You find that your friend's friends aren't that interesting to talk to. If you're lucky they might start talking about their work or housing problems, which helps fill the silence. But more often than not, you find that it's you who has to intitiate the conversation, and it all trails off in a series of yes no answers.
Then, horror of horrors, your friend goes off to the toilet. You're stuck at the table with the people who have nothing to say. You wish the fire alarm would go off or a window-shattering earthquake would happen, if only to create an ice-breaker.
That's my job.
A typical day at my company will feature this scenario seven times, each jaw-clenching episode lasting forty minutes. More often than not, the "classes" start like this:
Me: Hello. How are you?
Students: ...
Me: Oh.
And your heart sinks as you realise that this is going to be one of those classes. After ten minutes you take a look at the clock, hoping that enough time has passed so that you can at least move onto the textbook, and any pretense at normal chat is over. But the clock is cruel today - it is moving slowly to spite you, taunting you with its cheap, nasty, 100 yen shop hands.
At least in the bar with the dull friend, there is alcohol.
You talk about yourself, trying to create a "hook" interesting enough to make them ask one, just one, question. You start thinking of ludicrous scenarios, anecdotes, what-if questions, anything, anything, to make the student say something. You resort to outrageous lies:
Me: I met the Queen once. Ask me a question.
Student: ...
It should be noted that of course, in most cases, the students are rather reserved and shy. That's understandable. But why sign up to these classes if you're not going to participate? I had a religious studies teacher who once said that going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than going to Macdonalds makes you a hamburger. And it's the same here - turning up to a language school isn't going to automatically class you as an English speaker. It isn't like joining a club where membership equals status.
I have to add that of course there are exceptions to the rule. There are students who participate wonderfully and don't leave the teacher with a sore throat from all the silence filling (last year I lost my voice precisely every Wednesday evening after a day of one-sided conversation). These students try. They are interesting people. And it isn't down to their language ability either - some of my favourite students have trouble stringing sentences together. The fact is that they understand the concept - conversation schools are meant for conversation.
The more I think about it, the more I realise that we foreigners in these schools are actually hosts - hosts minus the booze, naughty promises and huge hairstyles, entertaining like geisha in Uniqlo office attire.
Most foreigners in Japan don't do this forever.
Student: ...
Fantasy Me: I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!
Monday 27 September 2010
New Digs
A while ago I said I was thinking of moving into a guesthouse, the (often) really shit dorm style housing that foreigners often find themselves in when they first come to Japan. Obviously that could be viewed as a step backwards, but certainly it's cheap and fairly hassle-free. Anyway, the only guesthouses I could find were in the middle of nowhere, or tiny, or ludicrously overpriced.
I like living fairly central. In London, all the dizzying heights of Oxford street were thirty minutes away by bus, or less if I took the Tube. And I wanted the same set-up here. I spend a lot of time in Shibuya and Shinjuku. So,when a friend told me she was leaving and asked if I would like her room, I said yes.
The house (HOUSE, not apartment, thank goodness) is in Shimokitazawa. That's only four minutes away from Shibuya by train. Lovely!
Shimokitazawa is a bit like Camden, before they high-streeted it up and ruined everything. Or maybe Portobello. There are no tall buildings, which is in itself a miracle. "It's popular with young people," my students say dubiously, and I don't know if that's good or bad in their eyes. But it's nice to see all the little African inspired shops and things, and people-watching is great there. Before, in places like Otsuka or Mizonokuchi (my old towns), all you could see were the salarymen in their stupid cheap suits. It was really depressing really, as you saw them you knew more or less exactly what they were doing, where they were going, what their routine was like. Their stupid wives were probably cooking their stupid dinners in their stupid little apartments, after a stupid day at the stupid office. So seeing people dressed in actual colours, or a young ponytailed man sitting writing in what looks like a journal at the table next to you as you sit with a coffee, is quite a nice change. Tattooed men appear on posters outside record shops, and the picture is a picture to be admired, not sneered at with disdain. Shimokitazawa has an air of hope and aspiration about it - people seem artistically inclined or imaginative. Places like Shinjuku or Mizonokuchi, in contrast, reek of despair.
I've been developing a bit of OCD about my new room's cleanliness. Everyday I'm dusting and cleaning the tatami before work. Everything is binned, washed, wiped, Febreezed or folded immediately. As soon as I wake up, I turn around and straighten the bed covers. That's a bit mental, maybe. When I was a student, I was a filthy pig. I only tidied up when it got to the point where I was picking my way through the debris to reach the door, and it's a miracle the sheets got changed at all. Did I change them? I don't remember. But call it old age, or new house excitement, or whatever else, I'm enjoying it. I never made any effort with my last place - it looked like a bomb had hit it and the floor became an extra shelf. Also, you couldn't swing a cockroach in that tiny space. And there WERE cockroaches.
It brings back my student days again...
THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE MAGGOTS
In my shared house, I looked at the kitchen sink. Someone had poured rice into it and left it there. I looked closer. It wasn't rice.
I like living fairly central. In London, all the dizzying heights of Oxford street were thirty minutes away by bus, or less if I took the Tube. And I wanted the same set-up here. I spend a lot of time in Shibuya and Shinjuku. So,when a friend told me she was leaving and asked if I would like her room, I said yes.
The house (HOUSE, not apartment, thank goodness) is in Shimokitazawa. That's only four minutes away from Shibuya by train. Lovely!
Shimokitazawa is a bit like Camden, before they high-streeted it up and ruined everything. Or maybe Portobello. There are no tall buildings, which is in itself a miracle. "It's popular with young people," my students say dubiously, and I don't know if that's good or bad in their eyes. But it's nice to see all the little African inspired shops and things, and people-watching is great there. Before, in places like Otsuka or Mizonokuchi (my old towns), all you could see were the salarymen in their stupid cheap suits. It was really depressing really, as you saw them you knew more or less exactly what they were doing, where they were going, what their routine was like. Their stupid wives were probably cooking their stupid dinners in their stupid little apartments, after a stupid day at the stupid office. So seeing people dressed in actual colours, or a young ponytailed man sitting writing in what looks like a journal at the table next to you as you sit with a coffee, is quite a nice change. Tattooed men appear on posters outside record shops, and the picture is a picture to be admired, not sneered at with disdain. Shimokitazawa has an air of hope and aspiration about it - people seem artistically inclined or imaginative. Places like Shinjuku or Mizonokuchi, in contrast, reek of despair.
I've been developing a bit of OCD about my new room's cleanliness. Everyday I'm dusting and cleaning the tatami before work. Everything is binned, washed, wiped, Febreezed or folded immediately. As soon as I wake up, I turn around and straighten the bed covers. That's a bit mental, maybe. When I was a student, I was a filthy pig. I only tidied up when it got to the point where I was picking my way through the debris to reach the door, and it's a miracle the sheets got changed at all. Did I change them? I don't remember. But call it old age, or new house excitement, or whatever else, I'm enjoying it. I never made any effort with my last place - it looked like a bomb had hit it and the floor became an extra shelf. Also, you couldn't swing a cockroach in that tiny space. And there WERE cockroaches.
It brings back my student days again...
THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE MAGGOTS
In my shared house, I looked at the kitchen sink. Someone had poured rice into it and left it there. I looked closer. It wasn't rice.
Saturday 11 September 2010
If I owned Eastenders
I really miss Eastenders. I really miss all British telly. Recently I've started going mad from it - searching for crusty clips on Youtube of Sharon snogging her fake brother from several years ago, until before I know it it's 3am and I'm still needing a dose of fake cockney injected into my bloodstream.
I must confess that the reason for my recent mania is the fact that I heard that Kat and Alfie are coming back - the tart with a heart and the cheeky chappy himself. In fact, they were the only reason I watched Eastenders for the most part. But then they went away and it all went wrong. All these blonde clones called Mitchell started appearing, some red-headed father and son were fighting over a slapper, some children appeared and nobody seemed to remember who they belonged to, etc. And I lost interest.
But as of next week, my favourite couple are back and I'm stuck over here, eating rice balls and MISSING IT. So if someone finds a way to record it, send it to me, despite my lack of a VHS recorder, then I'll be over the Alfie Moon. But until then I'll just keep imagining my own episodes in my head. So here is my take on things -
If I were in charge of Eastenders I would:
Kill off everyone in a freak accident. Sod burning the Vic, if I had it my way there would be a nasty case of bubonic plague, starting with the Mitchells. The signs would be small at first – Phil coughs up phlegm with every line (well, more than he usually does). Janine will find even more unsightly lumps under her armpits. Pat's earlobes would drop off, partly because of the plague and partly due to her bulbous earrings. Then entire families would disappear overnight, never to be seen again.
The only survivors would be Kat and Alfie, who would be holed up in the Vic’s burned out shell. Once all the corpses are cleared away, the pair would reign supreme and entire episodes would be dedicated to watching them loot the houses of the dead. Perhaps, for some light relief, Dot would remain in the launderette to keep the happy couple’s sheets nice and clean and quote bible passages when it seems all morals are lost.
Of course, being the only cast to speak of and therefore having no one else to talk to as an outlet, Alfie and Kat would gradually start to go mad. They will be sick of the sight of each other and begin to resent each others’ presence. The tension would build and build until someone snaps. So in a hilarious contrast to Alfie’s one-man midnight ‘condom caper’ episode a few years ago, there will be a harrowing episode consisting of nothing more than Kat running around the ghost town that was once Albert Square. Chased by an always unseen Alfie, wielding the metal bust of Queen Victoria.
In a further twist, Pauline would come back from the dead. Not as gripping as the Den Watts storyline but certainly worth it as Eastenders isn't Eastenders without a nagging matriarch.
Ratings would skyrocket!
In addition, one thing that's really torturing me at the moment is the fact that right now, probably right this minute, I'm missing This Is England '86, the TV spin-off continuation of Shane Meadows's film. This is a terrible state of affairs. I remember when I first watched the film I was distraught by the end, not because of the white-power, colour-hating subject matter, but because the jovial leader of the rapscallion skins, Woody, disappears half-way into the film. I was enraged! How dare they create a loveable, chirpy character then just push him off to the sidelines. But this is all fixed, as Woody's back, in several glorious episodes. Except, for now, I don't get to see it.
Bless England and its top telly. I'll save my rantings about Japanese TV for another time. I'm busy on Youtube right now.
I must confess that the reason for my recent mania is the fact that I heard that Kat and Alfie are coming back - the tart with a heart and the cheeky chappy himself. In fact, they were the only reason I watched Eastenders for the most part. But then they went away and it all went wrong. All these blonde clones called Mitchell started appearing, some red-headed father and son were fighting over a slapper, some children appeared and nobody seemed to remember who they belonged to, etc. And I lost interest.
But as of next week, my favourite couple are back and I'm stuck over here, eating rice balls and MISSING IT. So if someone finds a way to record it, send it to me, despite my lack of a VHS recorder, then I'll be over the Alfie Moon. But until then I'll just keep imagining my own episodes in my head. So here is my take on things -
If I were in charge of Eastenders I would:
Kill off everyone in a freak accident. Sod burning the Vic, if I had it my way there would be a nasty case of bubonic plague, starting with the Mitchells. The signs would be small at first – Phil coughs up phlegm with every line (well, more than he usually does). Janine will find even more unsightly lumps under her armpits. Pat's earlobes would drop off, partly because of the plague and partly due to her bulbous earrings. Then entire families would disappear overnight, never to be seen again.
The only survivors would be Kat and Alfie, who would be holed up in the Vic’s burned out shell. Once all the corpses are cleared away, the pair would reign supreme and entire episodes would be dedicated to watching them loot the houses of the dead. Perhaps, for some light relief, Dot would remain in the launderette to keep the happy couple’s sheets nice and clean and quote bible passages when it seems all morals are lost.
Of course, being the only cast to speak of and therefore having no one else to talk to as an outlet, Alfie and Kat would gradually start to go mad. They will be sick of the sight of each other and begin to resent each others’ presence. The tension would build and build until someone snaps. So in a hilarious contrast to Alfie’s one-man midnight ‘condom caper’ episode a few years ago, there will be a harrowing episode consisting of nothing more than Kat running around the ghost town that was once Albert Square. Chased by an always unseen Alfie, wielding the metal bust of Queen Victoria.
In a further twist, Pauline would come back from the dead. Not as gripping as the Den Watts storyline but certainly worth it as Eastenders isn't Eastenders without a nagging matriarch.
Ratings would skyrocket!
In addition, one thing that's really torturing me at the moment is the fact that right now, probably right this minute, I'm missing This Is England '86, the TV spin-off continuation of Shane Meadows's film. This is a terrible state of affairs. I remember when I first watched the film I was distraught by the end, not because of the white-power, colour-hating subject matter, but because the jovial leader of the rapscallion skins, Woody, disappears half-way into the film. I was enraged! How dare they create a loveable, chirpy character then just push him off to the sidelines. But this is all fixed, as Woody's back, in several glorious episodes. Except, for now, I don't get to see it.
Bless England and its top telly. I'll save my rantings about Japanese TV for another time. I'm busy on Youtube right now.
Wednesday 21 July 2010
Get Out Of My Face
Some things really get my goat. They grind my gears. They rub me up the wrong way. Here's one of them.
Every so often in Japan I get people approaching me asking if they can talk to me - the motive being (usually) so that they can use the English they've learned. Now you can look at it in a number of ways I suppose, and whether or not it annoys you very much depends on your mood at the time, and also the way in which a conversation is requested. For example, recently I was sitting in a park with my good friend, just chatting, when a middle aged man came up and asked if he could talk to us. Which is all very well and good, but he interrupted us mid-sentence while we were talking to EACH OTHER. Quite abruptly, I might add. Who knows what we could have been talking about? For all anyone knew it might have been quite an intimate conversation he was intruding on. Needless to say, this time it wasn't. But we still declined on principle. In the past, I have acquiesced to such requests but for the time being, I don't think I will. Here's why.
Imagine that you have been studying, I don't know, let's say French. You live in London. You're sitting in a cafe, when alors! You hear the dulcet tones of French trilling from the next table. Two French ladies are sipping coffee together, in deep conversation. What an opportunity! Perhaps the best thing to do is plonk yourself down at their table and ask to join in! They would probably be thrilled to speak with a stranger for a good half an hour.
I don't imagine, actually, that they would really appreciate a local forcibly extracting conversation from them. Perhaps they have the right to sit and relax in a country that is not their own without being hassled for a service they are under no obligation to provide. And sod it, so do I.
Many people view foreigners living in different countries as guests, and the guests should therefore be prepared to provide a service. Hmm. Perhaps. But these guests also work everyday. A holiday it ain't. And if they are English teachers, what motivation do they have to do the very thing they get paid to do for free? Certainly it is not their original country, but for the time being, it IS their home. And they have the right to enjoy their home in peace.
There are many ways to practice a language without bothering people in the street, in Starbucks, in the pub, wherever. Besides, if the foreigner is unwilling, it's pretty much awkward for everyone.
But all this is relatively mild compared with my original reason for writing this post. Japanese people wanting to practice English is one thing, and actually quite understandable at the end of the day, however aggravating it can be. HERE is what annoyed me immensely.
A few days ago I was at the pub with a friend of mine. All was well. We had beef jerky and some weird happy hour drinks. We told anecdotes. Ahahaha, we said. We were having a nice time.
BUT THEN!
A young man approached. He was a western fellow. He spoke to us in English.
"Can you do me and my friend a big favour and speak to the Japanese girls we're sitting with?" he asked. "They're really shy and don't want to speak to men, but maybe they'll speak to women."
We stared at him. We looked back at his table. Sure enough, there were two girls huddled together, looking rather sullen. Another western man, our attacker's accomplice no doubt, stared helplessly at them.
"Well, that's too bad for you," I said.
"Oh please, you'd be really helping us," he wheedled. The gist of that being, I want to get laid tonight.
"I'm a teacher. It's my day off and I don't want to do what i did all week for free," I retorted.
"I'm a teacher too! But they don't want to talk to us!" He was growing desperate. I wanted to say well, find other girls that talk, then. But I didn't. Ooh, I wish I had.
"That's not my problem," I said. He left.
Why were we so mean? Bitches! you might cry. Why didn't you help the wee laddies get a shag?
Because, fool, you missed the point. It's one thing to be used for conversation. That's quite sweet and pure actually, however irksome. But to be used as a tool to get into some unresponsive tart's knickers isn't exactly my idea of a relaxing weekend drink. And this was a fellow foreigner, who for all I know was used to the same intrusions on his own privacy. He should have known better.
If you think someone's open for a conversation, then by all means say hello. It can be a very nice experience for all. But don't intrude, for God's sake. And above all, don't use them as bait for your sordid motives.
On that note, adieu! Feel free to chat anytime.
Every so often in Japan I get people approaching me asking if they can talk to me - the motive being (usually) so that they can use the English they've learned. Now you can look at it in a number of ways I suppose, and whether or not it annoys you very much depends on your mood at the time, and also the way in which a conversation is requested. For example, recently I was sitting in a park with my good friend, just chatting, when a middle aged man came up and asked if he could talk to us. Which is all very well and good, but he interrupted us mid-sentence while we were talking to EACH OTHER. Quite abruptly, I might add. Who knows what we could have been talking about? For all anyone knew it might have been quite an intimate conversation he was intruding on. Needless to say, this time it wasn't. But we still declined on principle. In the past, I have acquiesced to such requests but for the time being, I don't think I will. Here's why.
Imagine that you have been studying, I don't know, let's say French. You live in London. You're sitting in a cafe, when alors! You hear the dulcet tones of French trilling from the next table. Two French ladies are sipping coffee together, in deep conversation. What an opportunity! Perhaps the best thing to do is plonk yourself down at their table and ask to join in! They would probably be thrilled to speak with a stranger for a good half an hour.
I don't imagine, actually, that they would really appreciate a local forcibly extracting conversation from them. Perhaps they have the right to sit and relax in a country that is not their own without being hassled for a service they are under no obligation to provide. And sod it, so do I.
Many people view foreigners living in different countries as guests, and the guests should therefore be prepared to provide a service. Hmm. Perhaps. But these guests also work everyday. A holiday it ain't. And if they are English teachers, what motivation do they have to do the very thing they get paid to do for free? Certainly it is not their original country, but for the time being, it IS their home. And they have the right to enjoy their home in peace.
There are many ways to practice a language without bothering people in the street, in Starbucks, in the pub, wherever. Besides, if the foreigner is unwilling, it's pretty much awkward for everyone.
But all this is relatively mild compared with my original reason for writing this post. Japanese people wanting to practice English is one thing, and actually quite understandable at the end of the day, however aggravating it can be. HERE is what annoyed me immensely.
A few days ago I was at the pub with a friend of mine. All was well. We had beef jerky and some weird happy hour drinks. We told anecdotes. Ahahaha, we said. We were having a nice time.
BUT THEN!
A young man approached. He was a western fellow. He spoke to us in English.
"Can you do me and my friend a big favour and speak to the Japanese girls we're sitting with?" he asked. "They're really shy and don't want to speak to men, but maybe they'll speak to women."
We stared at him. We looked back at his table. Sure enough, there were two girls huddled together, looking rather sullen. Another western man, our attacker's accomplice no doubt, stared helplessly at them.
"Well, that's too bad for you," I said.
"Oh please, you'd be really helping us," he wheedled. The gist of that being, I want to get laid tonight.
"I'm a teacher. It's my day off and I don't want to do what i did all week for free," I retorted.
"I'm a teacher too! But they don't want to talk to us!" He was growing desperate. I wanted to say well, find other girls that talk, then. But I didn't. Ooh, I wish I had.
"That's not my problem," I said. He left.
Why were we so mean? Bitches! you might cry. Why didn't you help the wee laddies get a shag?
Because, fool, you missed the point. It's one thing to be used for conversation. That's quite sweet and pure actually, however irksome. But to be used as a tool to get into some unresponsive tart's knickers isn't exactly my idea of a relaxing weekend drink. And this was a fellow foreigner, who for all I know was used to the same intrusions on his own privacy. He should have known better.
If you think someone's open for a conversation, then by all means say hello. It can be a very nice experience for all. But don't intrude, for God's sake. And above all, don't use them as bait for your sordid motives.
On that note, adieu! Feel free to chat anytime.
Thursday 8 July 2010
Better Late Than Never
I finally pulled my finger out and went to the gym today. Sadly, I realised it was the first time I've been in a gym for 8 years, and even then I only did it because I was sort of curious. Well, this time i stood on a treadmill for the first time in my life. And I didn't just stand on it, no siree! i was a-running as fast as my little sausage legs could carry me.
You know why?
Because this is Japan.
Yeah. Fatties are few and far between here. Well, actually, they're gradually increasing, but put it this way, when walking down the street, you'll see far less blobbies than you would in London. It's quite depressing, from a selfish point of view. When I went back to London this February, I was gleeful to find that I was no longer one of the largest people in the vicinity. It was quite lovely, wading amongst the blubber on King Street and feeling really rather svelte. Ahaha. And I don't jeer at people's misfortune, but it is just nice to not feel like a great big pig, snuffling in the truffles. When people gawped at me in England, it was easier to imagine that perhaps it was because they liked my nice boots, and not because they were staring at my massive proportions. Perhaps. Then I returned to Japan and it all went wrong again.
Of course, there is an easier way to not feel like a great big pig. No, that's a lie, it's actually the harder way. Instead of moving to a country full of oinkers to feel thin by comparison, you could go to the gym. I suppose that's what one calls productivity.
So it's the beginning of a new chapter. It's called "Getting Things Done". Let's see how it pans out.
You know why?
Because this is Japan.
Yeah. Fatties are few and far between here. Well, actually, they're gradually increasing, but put it this way, when walking down the street, you'll see far less blobbies than you would in London. It's quite depressing, from a selfish point of view. When I went back to London this February, I was gleeful to find that I was no longer one of the largest people in the vicinity. It was quite lovely, wading amongst the blubber on King Street and feeling really rather svelte. Ahaha. And I don't jeer at people's misfortune, but it is just nice to not feel like a great big pig, snuffling in the truffles. When people gawped at me in England, it was easier to imagine that perhaps it was because they liked my nice boots, and not because they were staring at my massive proportions. Perhaps. Then I returned to Japan and it all went wrong again.
Of course, there is an easier way to not feel like a great big pig. No, that's a lie, it's actually the harder way. Instead of moving to a country full of oinkers to feel thin by comparison, you could go to the gym. I suppose that's what one calls productivity.
So it's the beginning of a new chapter. It's called "Getting Things Done". Let's see how it pans out.
Thursday 1 July 2010
Comings and Goings
Soon there will be a change in living circumstances (again), only this time because one of my housemates is moving out. And that means he's gonna be replaced. With who, I just don't know.
Speculation abounds! Will they be nice? Mental? Void of personality? Right now, only time will tell.
This is the problem you always get when you choose to live with people. You don't get any say in the matter.
All this talk of living with people reminds me of my student days... (FLASHBACK WIGGLY LINES)
It is 2006. I am in my room in a rather large house I share with eight people. Music is playing and it is a cold winter evening. I am relaxed.
The floor is warm and i am grateful because it is chilly out. Then I realise - the floor is too warm. I hear shouting, then an alarm sounds. As I make my way downstairs, I see the smoke and it dawns on me what is happening.
The front door is open. My housemate is trying to waft the billowing smoke out of it. In the kitchen below my room, near the bins that have recently been de-maggotted, flames several feet high lick their way up the walls. Cause of fire - a pan of hot fat on the stove has been neglected while pasta simmers in confusion nearby. i look at the rising flames and think - I have to move.
Perhaps I am done living with people, then. So what are the choices?
Basically, in Japan, your options are the following if you're a foreigner. You can:
-live with friends in some manner of apartment (risky - in such small spaces, squabbles erupt and you may not be friends for much longer. Plus, someone always moves out, usually to sunnier climes.)
-live alone (usually expensive because some manner of key money, sorry, "gift money" has to be paid alongside the rent and deposit, plus agency fees if you choose to do it that way. Also, it can be a little lonely unless you enjoy misanthropy/"your own company")
-live with a lover (call me cynical but DO NOT RECOMMEND, unless you're certain it won't end in tears, despair and broken crockery)
Oh yeah, there's one more. You can live in a guesthouse. I did once. It was quite shit, really. There were cockroaches and spiders and signs saying "please use the restroom BEFORE you shower", which begs the question, why bother with any manner of pretence? If you're catering for the calibre of person who defecates in the shower cubicles regularly, drop the fancy language. "DON'T SHIT IN THE SHOWER" would surely suffice. Perhaps a smiley face to keep the tone light.
But, thinking about it, unless you want to stay in Japan for many moons, I actually believe guesthouses are the best option. Consider this:
- they're usually cheaper than apartment sharing
- kitchens and bathrooms are communal and cleaned by management, so you won't have fights over who left the hair in the plughole or who didn't do the washing up
-you can always meet people. In fact, I met my first and (some of my closest) Japan friends in a guesthouse. It was quite sweet really, we bonded over the house's ridiculous idiosyncrasies, such as how there was no internet for the first 2 months, or how there was always a mysterious bag of hair in the shower room. But, at the very least, it is not a lonely place.
-if people get too much for you, you can lock the room door and escape from the outside world. It's difficult to do that in an apartment, where you hear every sparrowfart, throat-clearing and occasional suspicious grunt.
I've stated my case. In fact, it's a wicked decision. Watch this space.
Speculation abounds! Will they be nice? Mental? Void of personality? Right now, only time will tell.
This is the problem you always get when you choose to live with people. You don't get any say in the matter.
All this talk of living with people reminds me of my student days... (FLASHBACK WIGGLY LINES)
It is 2006. I am in my room in a rather large house I share with eight people. Music is playing and it is a cold winter evening. I am relaxed.
The floor is warm and i am grateful because it is chilly out. Then I realise - the floor is too warm. I hear shouting, then an alarm sounds. As I make my way downstairs, I see the smoke and it dawns on me what is happening.
The front door is open. My housemate is trying to waft the billowing smoke out of it. In the kitchen below my room, near the bins that have recently been de-maggotted, flames several feet high lick their way up the walls. Cause of fire - a pan of hot fat on the stove has been neglected while pasta simmers in confusion nearby. i look at the rising flames and think - I have to move.
Perhaps I am done living with people, then. So what are the choices?
Basically, in Japan, your options are the following if you're a foreigner. You can:
-live with friends in some manner of apartment (risky - in such small spaces, squabbles erupt and you may not be friends for much longer. Plus, someone always moves out, usually to sunnier climes.)
-live alone (usually expensive because some manner of key money, sorry, "gift money" has to be paid alongside the rent and deposit, plus agency fees if you choose to do it that way. Also, it can be a little lonely unless you enjoy misanthropy/"your own company")
-live with a lover (call me cynical but DO NOT RECOMMEND, unless you're certain it won't end in tears, despair and broken crockery)
Oh yeah, there's one more. You can live in a guesthouse. I did once. It was quite shit, really. There were cockroaches and spiders and signs saying "please use the restroom BEFORE you shower", which begs the question, why bother with any manner of pretence? If you're catering for the calibre of person who defecates in the shower cubicles regularly, drop the fancy language. "DON'T SHIT IN THE SHOWER" would surely suffice. Perhaps a smiley face to keep the tone light.
But, thinking about it, unless you want to stay in Japan for many moons, I actually believe guesthouses are the best option. Consider this:
- they're usually cheaper than apartment sharing
- kitchens and bathrooms are communal and cleaned by management, so you won't have fights over who left the hair in the plughole or who didn't do the washing up
-you can always meet people. In fact, I met my first and (some of my closest) Japan friends in a guesthouse. It was quite sweet really, we bonded over the house's ridiculous idiosyncrasies, such as how there was no internet for the first 2 months, or how there was always a mysterious bag of hair in the shower room. But, at the very least, it is not a lonely place.
-if people get too much for you, you can lock the room door and escape from the outside world. It's difficult to do that in an apartment, where you hear every sparrowfart, throat-clearing and occasional suspicious grunt.
I've stated my case. In fact, it's a wicked decision. Watch this space.
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