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Having decided, by the tail end of last week, to buy a new computer, Ian popped into Scotsys in Glasgow on his way home from work last Friday and picked one up.We are now the proud owners of a new iMac. It works like a dream and has been no trouble at all. Although it promises to whip some up. New house, new baby; new computer, new virtual presence. I've taken the plunge and invested in a .mac account. I get an email address, the ability to instantly upload from iPhoto to the web and a huge chunk of web space... I'm thinking of using it to blog.
So, dear reader, that was Friday and Saturday. Today is Sunday and time for The Sunday Mallet! If you didn't know, it's a word association game played out in the comments section. For the original instructions, please click here. For something vulgar, please click here.
Last week, Salty Sailor left us with vanilla. The first word to pop into my mind: ice. Now, my love, it's over to you...!
I spent a great deal of the Summer out of Edinburgh, indeed, out of Scotland. I should, of course, being a gay, be able to liken that to Meryl Streep and Out of Africa, but I can't. I'm a gay, yes, but a bad gay. Most gays know which style of top is hot this week and last, which band should be top of anyone's playlist and how to bitch. The best I can do is bake muffins. I'm sorry, it's true.
And I'm waffling. Again. And sorry for that, too.
So yes, I've spent much of the Summer away from home. For a myriad of reasons; to try and rescue my sanity, to spend time with my Mum and to see some sunshine. I'm not sure if I managed any of that, to be frank, but I tried and if I'd not even tried, I'd feel more of a failure now than I actually am.
On the sanity front - spending much of my time here alone with not much to do afforded me hours of tongue examination and my mind went a wondering. Without given facts but plenty on which to ponder, I'd frighten myself in imagining my imminent death on a daily basis. Anyone might imagine I had too much time on my hands. Perhaps they were right.
There's never a dull moment in Bournemouth. Mum's a very lively personality. She likes to push buttons and surround herself with something of a royal court. I've often wondered if she was a queen in a former life and if, perhaps, that's why her son turned out to be a queen, too.
I certainly did not have too much time on my hands in Bournemouth. In fact, I had no time to spare. Mum woke me up, most mornings, quite early. There was always a plan; people to see, things to do, bingo to play. There was no time to worry about what might or might not be.
It was great seeing Mum. When I initially left Bournemouth in 2000, I planned on going back down to Dorset about once a month. I've never actually managed that. Mum's either been too busy to see me or things have been happening up here. Of course, I have been down to England quite often, sometimes for extended periods and Mum's been here. I'm sure it averages out to about as much time as my planned one weekend in four. So I don't feel too guilty over it. Of course, such statistics, as used by many a government, paper over many a crack. I think I've convinced myself that I'm ok with this. I can be positive about it. Indeed, my eldest sister only lives a five minute car journey away from Mum. I see her much more often than my sister does, the bitch.
If 2007 had abeen a better Summer, I'd have been able to fulfil my other desire - to see some sunshine! Get a wee tan, even. No, not possible. Most days were dull. Overcast skies were the norm and there were as many wet days as there were dry.
But still, there was the bingo! And we won quite a bit. We never left out of pocket, even if we only broke even. One afternoon, Mum, Pat (her wee pal) and I left with just over one hundred pounds. We have a sharing pact, though. If my memory serves me well, we each came away with £34.33 each. Who got the extra penny, I can't say.
Those, I suppose, dear reader, are the bar bones of my Summer trip to England.
In my degenerating mind, it was somewhat different.
Loyal readers of this vile blog may know how my brother's wedding in West Virgina a few years back was a hotbed of hate and homophobia. My Mum still refuses to face facts and accept that her daughter is an evil and twisted bitch with opinions that would make Adolf Hitler look liberal.
I tried, on many occasions, to let sly comments go by the wayside, but once or twice, I did take the bate and debate the point with Mum. Why, I'm not too sure.
I don't have children. I imagine how a woman might feel torn when her children are fighting, but I do imagine and do hope that I'd be able to see right from wrong. No matter how old my children were, I'd like to think I'd intervene and punish where punishments were due, even if said punishment was just a tirade of verbal abuse.
But I'm not a parent. So I don't really know. I cannot judge my Mother. I don't have the ability to walk a mile in her moccasins.
All I am able to take from the Summer is that I don't want to fight with my Mother, I don't want to argue and I don't want another sibling to come between us. I have to accept that Mum isn't perfect. Mum has to accept that her children aren't perfect either. Both sons and daughters.
I love my Mother dearly, even if she is a right wing xenephobe. She's going to be seventy seven years old in November. I don't know how much longer I'll have here with her but certainly intend to treasure whatever time I do have. Quite a poignant statement, actually, especially considering that it's two years ago today that Ian's Mum passed away after a short illness.
There are still some bones I'd like to pick over and contentious subjects I'd like addressed, but I won't let them get in the way of my relationship with Mum. All health scares taken into account, we might not have that long together. No-one knows what's around the corner. And a cliché, I know, but she or I could get run over by a bus tomorrow.
That said, my sister really should do something about the widening rift she's caused within my family. I've never been one for being buddies with a person simply because we're related, but I do care on some level for my bitch of a sister. If I didn't, all this wouldn't bother me. And I know it bothers Mum. So if that bus did come for Mum or I tomorrow, my sister would have to live out the rest of her life with no opportunity to repair the damage she's done.
And what a lot of damage.
To add insult to homophobic injury, she's forbidden her daughter from telling my Mum (her Gran) that she's a lesbian. My sister's story varies from source to source. She's either blantantly vague on the matter, can't bring herself to tell Mummy, indifferent or insisting Mum doesn't know the truth because she's ashamed of her daughter's lesbianism.
But Mum will find out. It's not a question of if but when. Practically every member of the family knows about my niece. The only person who doesn't seem to know is Mum. Whether it's a slip of the tongue or intentional, she will be told at some point. The only question then remaining will be my Mother's: how come everyone else knew and not me?
I'd really hoped, even in taking the brunt of my sister's hatred, she'd learn something from that American episode. No. She hasn't. She's still a homophobic cunt. I pity her, I really do. But I can't help loving her. I'm some kind of glutton for punishment, I think.
Hey, ho. As Sylvia Mason-James once said to me, live for today, hen.
The day before my birthday was spent in outragous style, beginning, as ever, with a fabulous breakfast of coffee et des gateaux! Our former haunt having a genuine lack of custard, we were in search of vanilla, eggs and cream. The end of our odyssey was a fabulous wee bakery right near the entrance to Shinjuku station. European style pastries, bread and cakes of so many varieties were available along with pizza slices, croque-monsieur and croque-madame.
Ian loves to indulge in a bit of croque from time to time, so took advantage of this opportunity. No dead pig can ever enter my mouth, but lots of custardy cakes can! Cake after cake, choc-full of custard, fruits, chocolate...! Heaven on a plate and all washed down with a most creamy cappuccino! The Japanese really know how to create good coffee!
I'm sure the staff in the bakery/coffee shop must have been muttering things like, "Fat, greedy pigs!" under their breath, though, to our faces, they were beyond helpful and polite. The other customers, all exclusively Japanese, sat down to beakfast with a small glass of water and a tiny bread roll. Lord above us! The penny's just dropped. Do you think we were in the midst of a POW camp rôle play group?
Before leaving for Japan, I'd actually hoped we could make it to the Tokyo Edo Open Air Architectural Museum. Like walking into the past, apparently, and they even have a sento for visitors' use! Sadly, it was a wee bit out of town, quite a journey away, so we opted for the Edo Tokyo Museum instead. In a way, I'm glad we did.
The museum was like a journey through time and to my relief and amusement, contained very few pots. I hate museums crammed with pots. Pots, pots, pots and more pots. What is the bloody point? Oh, great, in the fifth century BCE, they drank out of this kind of clay pot with squiggly markings on it. Two hundred years later, the markings were square. Really? How interesting.
There were pots in the museum, yes, but were few and far between. Also, many museums, particularly in the west are more a commentary on leaders, whether they be kings, queens, queens, presidents or prime ministers. The Edo Tokyo Museum dedicated itself to old Edo, its people, their way of life and how they've changed from the days the first people pitched a tent to today. Wonderful, fascinating, enlightening. At points, I felt I was unconscious, in a dream-like state, in a trance, part of the fabric of the building. Everything else faded away, melted beneath my feet. I was in a four hundred year old theatre or polishing rice with a stick or rebuilding my home after earthquake and floods or tuning-in my first portable radio.
Everything was laid out before me. From above, from a reproduction bridge, once could see all of time and space. From below, the journey began... While Anne of Denmark was crowned queen of Scotland, Japan was united by Toyotomi Hideyoshi and Edo's story began.
Totally fabulous.
After our tour of the museum, we took lunch in the Japanese restaurant. Any British museum sees tourists as a foolish and captive audience. They're baffled with numbers, prices and currency conversions and are prepared to pay twenty pounds for a plate of greasy chips. Such abuse does not take place in Japan, at least, it's never happened to me. Ian and I enjoyed a most delicious meal of local delights freshly prepared on our giving the order and at a reasonable price, too.
The maître d' was an outlandish mary with a George Michael style beard. I'm sure there was a wee bit of westerner inside him. And hey, if there wasn't, I'm sure he'd take some. Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. I have a notion, and Alan thought it too, that if Japanese men are able to grow beards, they do so. Some kind of showing off. Peacocks, as my Mother might have said. But really, dear reader, I don't mean to bitch about the man. He was very kind to us, asked if we needed a knife and fork and showed suitable facial expressions of surprise and delight when we turned his offer down and used the chopsticks provided. A battle of language, though, soon ensued. He was very keen to show off his impressive english skills, we were keen to use what little japanese we did know. Our first lesson of the day came, on leaving, when I said to our man, "Oishii!" which is japanese for delicious.
He corrected me, with a wry smile, "Oishii kat-ta des."
Obviously, these are probably very poor attempts at spelling, but the phonetics ring true.
A delightful man, really. We left with him smiling, saying, "Good-bye," and throwing a wink. To be frank, I'm surprised he didn't blow us a kiss. I'm really not being rude or sarcastic, he was such a nice guy. His kiss would have been genuine.
Marys have an uncanny way of recognising one another. Don't ask me how or why, and let's not get into the gaydar debate, but a knowing look reciprocated with something similar is all it seems to take, regardless of language or location.
After lunch and a telephone call, we made our way to Azamino to meet up with our delicious friends, Alan chan and Jun Kun. Arriving slightly early, we popped into Tully's (nothing to do with Susan) for a coffee and, quel surprise, a cake. My fourth or fifth of the day, I think. Fat pig!
Smoking is a popular hobby in Japan! I noted, though, that this seemed to be the first eatery in which I'd been where there was a designated smoking area. Most other places, if not all, were crammed with people smoking wherever they liked. As a reformed smoker, I should object to eating in a blue haze, though I actually don't. I don't mind it at all. Unlike most former smokers, I don't whine on about smoking or comment on how unhealthy it is. I'm not trying to blow my own trumpet, really, I'm not, just making a comment. Why it doesn't bother me, I'm not sure. I wondered if all this passive smoking might make me reach out for a packet of fags, but not once was I tempted, though I will admit to considering it, chiefly when I'm looking for something to do. And asking Junya for a draw on his smoke did flash through my brain, though a feel of the scar on my tongue with my teeth put pay to that.
After clearing my plate and drinking down my cappuccino, Ian and I left and waited for perhaps only thirty seconds to a minute for Alan and Junya to arrive. Perfect timing. Off to the sento we went.
Edit - in checking out some links, I came upon this. It's fabulous. The first thing a sento azamino google search throws up is Alan's Travelpod blog!
A taxi to the sento from the station was all of a fiver. Not a bad price and another arrow in my qiver, more ammunition to contradict the, "But Japan's so expensive..." argument. I'd pay the same price for a taxi ride here in Edinburgh, perhaps more.
A sento, basically, is a public bath house, a place where one will go not to swim, but to wash, in the time-honoured Japanese style with strict rules to follow. One washes with soap and water; either running water or by throwing bucket loads over oneself. After the washing and complete removal of soap, soaking takes place in very hot water and in a variety of forms: bubbles, waterfalls and even an electric current passing through l'eau! Sexes are separated, though I have, from time to time, seen young girls in the male areas with whom I presume to be their Fathers. This may be a big deal in the west and although I was uncomfortable with it, the Japanese have a wildly differing opinion to the naked body. Although the genders are separated, the naked form is not seen as something dirty, nor, I think, a thing of beauty. It's just a naked body. No big deal.
Nudism. Yes, and the ability to dispell yet another myth! Japanese men come in many different shapes and sizes, as do their cocks! We saw average ones, big ones, massive ones and tiny ones! In fact, one was so tiny, it looked like a hole! Yes, Alan and I do admit to taking a closer look from time to time. Strictly for educational purposes, of course!
After the sento, we got dressed and took a drink. My fluid intake must, I'm sure, have replaced the ounce I'd lost while bathing. I plumped for melon cream soda (it was strange) while Alan went down the traditional route with a wee bottle of milk. Milku?
From the sento, we returned to the port area of Yokohama through Sakuragicho station, met up with Alan and Junya's pals, Dan and Masumi - then went off for okonomiyaki! My favourite! Delicious! And, antibiotics all finished, washed down with copious amounts of sake!
Dan and Masumi are husband and wife; a very interesing couple and very funny. I loved chatting to them and hearing Masumi's English accent. "Who farted?" and "Home James, and don't spare the horses!" I actually thought Hyacinth Bucket was in the room!
From the okonomiyaki restaurant, we headed out to the water to watch the fireworks, part of the Perry celebrations. Very impressive. Just like the Edinburgh Hogmanay fireworks, but went on for about forty five minutes instead of the ten to fifteen I'm used to.
The colourful display over, we headed to an izakaya for drinks and nibbles. Sadly, I forgot the playing cards. I was very much looking forward to playing Scabby Queen and Cheat. We've had such fun times in Japan in the past, playing cards and drinking sake. I was really up for a repeat. Alas, ne'er mind, with the outragous company and free-flowing booze, cards were not needed for a good time. I really had the time of my life.
Our journey home was peaceful. Surprisingly few people on the train to Shinjuku. I sat, in quiet meditation, thinking of the day that had been, the day that was to come and wondering what my friends and family might be doing, scattered all over the world. Some sleeping, some going to bed, some just getting up. My birthday was only an hour away, yet at other points on the earth, it was almost a day away. Without going off on a tangent, I would like to say my mind seems, ahem, to have a mind of its own at times. At the most inappropriate times and in the most inappropriate of circumstances, I can sometimes think the most inappropriate things. I began to wonder about the mysteries of time and space, the idea that time does not exist, that it's just an invention by we humans to measure distance between events. I found comfort in that. In my vanity, I realised I wasn't going to be thirty five years old at all in the next hour, and even if I were, somewhere on the earth, I would be thirty four. Perhaps somewhere in the universe, I'd be thirty three. I'd be a time-traveller. If time exists, of course.
Or is thirty five just a number?
Back at the hotel, I took a shower and climed into bed. Indeed, in strictest terms, after looking at the clock, I was thirty five. Though I thought nothing of it and drifted, very rapidly, off to sleep.
I remember Rachel's wedding, dear reader. The Summer of 2000.
Having lived with Russell for a while, he and my cousin's daughter got maried. It was the saddest wedding I'd ever been to. Only days prior to the wedding, Rachel's brother, out with Russell on some kind of stag party, died. Some kind of allergic reaction to alcohol. Toxicity. Something like that. A few pints of lager and a shot of vodka. That's all it took.
The wedding went ahead as planned, though they still had the funeral to look forward to.
It was so unfair - and even now, seeing people blind drunk, Rachel and her family must look and wonder. Why Richard? Why then? Hadn't he suffered enough?
And he had. Born with a cleft palate and hare lip, every year of his short life meant another operation. Just when they'd come to a natural end, just when it's found happiness with a girlfriend in St Helens, he was taken from the world.
