I saw a man wearing a Royal Mail jacket the other day. One of those thin blue ones that they used to use in the early 2000's, when that style of uniform was used. You see I follow the uniform trends of the Royal Mail, it’s a natural hobby. And I'll confront anyone with the rough end of a pillow should they say otherwise. They will feel the wrath of my pacifism if they so wish to test me.
I was looking at it for a few seconds before I felt that something was a bit weird. For a brief instance there can sometimes be moments when knowledge of where you are can be toyed with. Did I just forget that I was in Japan and think I was in England? Of course not! How could one item of clothing transport me back home? So there I was slowly coming to the terms with this new oddity this land has thrown at me, an oddity too silly to be repeated.
Two days later it was repeated. This time it was one of those orange and blue affairs, those thicker coats that are worn in the winter by our native postal workers. It's anglophilia gone mad, I tellya!
My phone started beeping in new ways last week. This was no ordinary call, text or alarm alert. This was something new.
“What new devilry is this?” I whispered to myself. It was a Sean Bean from The Fellowship of the Ring moment, if ever one called for it, save the moments before a swarm of Orcs surround you in a dungeon. I immediately picked up the phone to see that it was an earthquake alarm. No more than two seconds later, before I could even react to the alert, the walls began to shudder and I could feel that gentle sway beneath me, much like being moved my the motion of a train.
It would appear that punctuality knows no bounds here, even when it comes to earthquake alerts. No earlier, no later. Personally I would prefer a little earlier, just so I can prepare myself more readily. But who am I to question the most technologically advanced nation in the world? I will just have to learn to find comfort in those last two seconds, should they come.
The second time it happened, the tremor was much worse, with no warning. It was scary to say the least, and when one is pushed to extreme situations, articulation is shaken also. The best way to describe it, is that I felt the ground was angry with me. The very foundation I was standing upon was displeased with me and felt the need to vigorously tell me so.
“Buro-job?”. I am pretty sure that I did hear something like that when I was walking a main road in Shibuya. I did the sensible thing. I let it pass. It could have been anything. Then only a few yards on, again:
“Buro-job?”. Now that was definitely the same thing as before, right? Same words and intonation. This time I couldn’t let it pass. I stopped and walked back to the questionable speaker.
“Excuse me. What did you say?” I enquired.
“Yeah? You wanna bro-job?” she said.
“Ah. Yes. I thought so… er, no sorry. No blowjob tonight thanks.”
I've never scrubbed so much in my life. It was a mistake to buy red wine in the first place. Red wine just asks to be spilled, I do it all the time. I have accused other people before, just to escape the blame of being the wine spiller. There is no one else to blame here. Here is only me, and thus only I spilt the wine. I am told the property owners are fussy here. The slightest stain means uprooting the most comfortable of carpets and most settled of wallpapers. There is no middle ground. I wish there was. I like the middle ground. It means compromise, and I like that. It means give and take. The two parties both win some and also lose some. But I fear, here in Japan, I will be the one losing. And I hate that, especially after scrubbing so hard. I really did try.
There will always be a second time. There always is. I only hope I am more prepared, for whatever decision I may take. Do we not learn from the first time? Are we not always ready with soapy water and a sponge? If not, then a third time will be sure to present itself. No matter how costly, or inconsequential.
